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TANGLED 


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PATHS 




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BY 

MRS. ANNA HANSON DORSEY, 

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AUTHOR OF “THE FLEMMINGS ;’ 1 “ MAY BROOKE;” “ NORA BRADY’S VOW;” “ MONA THE 
VESTAL;” “TEARS ON THE DIADEM;” “ WOODREVE MANOR,” ETC., ETC. 



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NEW YORK : 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., PUBLISHERS, 

, ’ NO. 31 BARCLAY STREET. . 

MONTREAL: 275 NOTRE DAME STREET. 

1879. 

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COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY 

D. & J. Sadlier & Company. 








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NEW YORK : 

EDWARD O. JENKINS, PRINTER, 

20 North William St. 





TANGLED PATHS. 
PART I. 










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TANGLED PATHS. 


CHAPTER I. 

“What is the use of going to church, Td like to know?” ex- 
claimed Edyth Weston, in petulant tones, as her old nurse placed 
her ermine tippet around her shoulders and proceeded to button it. 
“ I say, what’s the use of it?” she again asked, giving herself a jerk 
that sent one of the glittering buttons spinning into a corner. 

“ Most people goes to church to try and sarve God ; but I don’t 
see as it does you any good, sure ’nutf ! ” replied nurse, while her 
hot African blood glowed through her swarthy cheeks, and her black 
eyes emitted sparks, for her young charge had been more than usu- 
ally exasperating from the time she had opened her eyes that morn- 
ing up to the present moment. 

“ Well then if I must go, why can’t I go without so much fuss and 
dressing up ? — it tires me out, and makes me mad in the bargain.” 

“It don’t take much, no time, to raise that temper of your’n, 
honey. If it warn’ t 4 fixin’ up 5 ’twould be somethin’ else. Hold 
still while I sew this button on ag’in,” said nurse. 

“ There now ! sewing on Sunday, too ! I wish you’d make haste, 
you old poke.” 

44 Is them your manners? I’m ’feard you’ll never lam perlite- 
ness. I b’en always used to ladies, Miss Edyth ; ladies as was 
ladies in the grain, and they is as perlite to poor folks as they is to 
rich ones.” 

44 Come, Edyth ; are you ready ? Barbara, did I not tell you to 
dress Edyth in the gray poplin trimmed with blue, that came from 
Paris last week ? It seems impossible to get you to attend to my 
orders ! ” said a querulous voice at the door. Barbara looked 
round, and saw her mistress standing in the doorway, ready dressed 
for church. 


6 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“ No, madam ; you didn’t give no sech orders. It’s all the same 
to me what the chile w T ears ; one thing’s no more trouble than 
another to put on — ” 

“ Don’t contradict me — I won’t have it. Change her dress in- 
stantly, and put in her blue ear-rings, and get out the hat that 
came with the dress. And — good heavens ! look at those boots ! 
Take them off at once, and put on her new French boots !” said 
Mrs. Weston, imperiously. The world had left traces on this woman’s 
countenance which gave her a hard, haughty expression, and her 
present petulance did not tend in the least to soften them. 

“ Come, the moment you’re ready, Edyth; I expect Mass will be 
half over by the time we get there, and you know that Father Con- 
way always stops preaching when one comes in late, until one gets 
seated. Be quick, Barbara.” 

Then Mrs. Weston rustled down to her carriage to wait for 
Edyth. She was elegantly dressed in the richest materials, made 
up in the latest style. Her Russian sables alone were worth a small 
fortune ; her eyebrows were becomingly penciled ; her cheeks artistic- 
ally tinted, and through the film of a black dotted veil, the ravages 
of time and the wear and tear of the world, were not very apparent, 
and she still passed for a handsome woman. She had matronized 
a “Bachelor’s German” the night before, from which she did not 
return until after midnight, fagged out and wearied beyond expres- 
sion, and w'ould have stayed at home to-day on the plea of indispo- 
sition, only that she desired to be seen in her pew by the new French 
Minister and his wife, the Marquis and Marquise de Rozier, w T ho were 
both very devout Catholics, and upon whom she was extremely anx- 
ious to make a favorable impression. So she sat tapping her foot 
impatiently on the soft mat that covered the carriage floor, waiting 
for Edyth, whom she would have left at home, but that she wished 
Madame de Rozier, who was noted for her maternal virtues, to see 
Edyth at church with her, as it would then appear that she had a 
serious care for her daughter’s religious training. 

Up-stairs, hurry and sharp words prevailed while the change of 
toilette indicated by Mrs. Weston was being made ; the child’s un- 
disciplined heart was in revolt against her mother and against the 
pious usages of religion, which, it seemed to her, were only in- 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


vented to torment children and deprive them of pleasures they most 
enjoyed. 

“ Study ! study ! all the week ; and music ; and Miss Arnold — - 
how I hate her ! — preaching propriety, and making me point my 
nose this way, and my toes that, and my shoulders so, and my head 
up; and not allowed to eat what I like, because it will hurt my 
complexion and make me bunchy ; and obliged to sit still while 
Susette pulls my hair and makes it look like a mop ; and to dress 
up, and to take dancing lessons, and then when Sunday comes, I 
can’t even go to Mass without your worrying me to death, dressing 
me in all sorts of fidfads, instead of letting me be just comfortable 
like my cousin Clara.” 

“I doesn’t do it, chile; it’s your mar. She’s one of the rich 
quality, you know, and she hev to keep up to what she’s larnt. 
Your cousin Clara’s mar is a lady born, that’s a fac’ ! but they’s 
pore, and can’t ’ford to be ’stravagant like us,” replied nurse Bar- 
bara, as she slipped the elastic string of Edyth’s hat under the cloud 
of loose flaxen curls that fell in glossy profusion over her neck and 
shoulders. 

“ And I wish, too, that Natalie could teach me instead of Miss 
Arnold.” 

“ G’long, chile, you’s all ready now,” said Barbara, placing her 
brown hands upon her hips and looking with the inborn admiration 
of her race for beautiful things, at Edyth, who was lovely indeed, in 
her becoming attire, for nature had done much for her, independent 
of such aids. Flushed and angry, she made no answer, but ran 
down the broad staircase, unobservant of the spice of sarcasm in 
nurse Barbara’s speech ; out through the hall, down the marble 
steps, and sprang into the carriage, beside her mother. And so the 
two rolled away in the luxurious carriage, to be present at the Holy 
Sacrifice of the Altar — in what spirit our readers may understand — 
while old Barbara gathered up the garments scattered over the 
floor, shrewdly wondering “if Miss’ Weston ever ’spected to make 
her darter a good Christian that ar way ? ” But the problem was 
too tough for her; she only knew that the present Mrs. Weston was 
very different from her master's first wife ; and that her daughter, 
who was then finishing her education at a convent school, was like 


8 


TANGLED PA TUS. 


her own dead mother, and not spoiled and ill-trained like her step- 
sister, Edyth. She many a time felt sorry for the child. “ They 
aint satisfied,” she often thought, “ to let the gal grow, but they 
fo’ces her jest like they does the strawberries and flowers in our hot- 
house. I aint got no lamin’, but I got sense ’nuff to see that ; and 
I think it’s a sin and a shame to spile God A’ mighty’s purty work 
that way. But them sort o’ white folks don’t know nothin’.” 

Barbara could only take it out in thinking ; there was nothing she 
could do to help matters, but she occasionally relieved her mind by 
giving vent to obscure and sarcastic speeches of a sort like those re- 
lated. We will leave her now, to tell you something of the people 
to whom we have already introduced you, and of some others who, 
being also Catholics, developed in their characters the beautiful 
fruits of those graces which are bestowed upon the faithful observers 
of their Holy Faith. 

Mr. Weston was a banker of enormous wealth, whose energies, 
ever since his earliest manhood, had been absorbed by a greed for 
accumulating money. He had come from his country home to the 

city of , when he was a lad of fifteen, with five dollars in his 

pocket, and succeeded, after repeated efforts to obtain employment, 
in being engaged as errand-boy in a store, where he gained by 
industry, and a regular, honest attention to his duties, the good- 
will of his employer, and was promoted to a place of trust and 
responsibility. After a few years, this gentleman’s health obliged 
him to retire from business and go abroad, and he recommended in 
strong terms his .young clerk to a banking-house in which a friend 
of his own was senior partner, and Caleb Weston was appointed 
“ runner” in place of one who was just promoted. Living -fru- 
gally, permitting himself no indulgences of any sort, shrewdly atten- 
tive to the interests of his employers, punctual, alert, and honest in 
all his dealings, it would have been strange had he not made his 
way upward in the life so perfectly consonant with his inclinations ; 
at last, like all men of one idea, he found success and was taken 
into partnership, his perfect acquaintance with the business being 
more valuable capital than the few thousands he had scraped 
together and now threw into the firm as a nucleus around which, he 
had made up his mind, should gather a princely fortune. Caleb 


TANGLED PA THS. 


9 


Weston belonged to no sect or creed ; religion was a thing entirely 
outside his world ; and if brought in contact squarely with the sub- 
ject, he regarded it as an amiable sort of system, so far as he 
understood it ; but not being able to bring it down to a tangible 
calculation, or manipulate it by rules of algebra, or finger it in the 
shape of coupons, bonds, bank notes, gold, silver, or certificates of 
stock, he did not think it worth considering ; in fact, he looked upon 
any attention given to the subject as wasted time. 

The only spot left uncrusted by greed of gold in this man’s heart 
during all these years of indefatigable struggle for success, and which 
showed that it was human in its instincts, was his constancy to an 
old schoolmate in his native village, a penniless girl, with whom he 
used to share his apples and chestnuts, and pull home on his rough 
sled when the ground was covered with snow. Like himself, Cecilia 
Reid was poor, but she was a Catholic ; he, a dependent on rela- 
tions whose circumstances were far from being prosperous, was 
nothing ; nobody cared, and none of them had time, even had they 
known how, to give him the simplest rudiments of a Christian edu- 
cation, and so he had drifted out into the great world and fallen into 
the hands of Mammon. She, Cecilia Reid, was sorry to part with 
her old school-comrade, who had always been kind to her, and whom 
nobody else liked ; and as the months and years passed by without 
his coming back, or writing to any one, she concluded that he had 
forgotten them all ; and, having her own work in life to do, she 
ceased even to wonder what had become of him. She belonged to 
one of those old South of Maryland families who came over with 
Lord Baltimore, and received grants of land from him for their 
services in the colony — who were rich, and kept great state for two 
or three generations, until their possessions began to diminish, and 
grow less from decade to decade ; until the last of them, Cecilia’s 
father and his children, were penniless, bereft of all except their old 
honorable name, and that which was inestimable above everything, 
their faith — to which from generation to generation the race had 
clung through evil as well as good report, and in whose blessed sign 
they had passed from earth to heaven. And at length these passed 
away also, leaving only this fragile girl, without means, or friends, 
who could assist her, to battle as bravely as she might with adversity 


10 


TANGLED PA THS. 


and trial. With a breaking heart, she confided herself with simple 
faith to the protection of the Blessed Virgin, and took up her cross 
without murmur, as her dear Lord had done before her, relying on 
the promises of Him who declared that He would be the Father* of 
the orphan. 

Caleb Weston was thirty years old before he took breath and time 
from his money-getting to look around himself and realize the fact 
that he was solitary and needed domestic companionship in a home 
of his own after the toils of business. The thought haunted him like 
a pleasant dream for some time, and he began to wonder where 
Cecilia Reid might be, and if she remembered him. He knew that 
she had been brought up in severely economical habits, and would, 
far from wasting his substance, if he married her, be a help to him, 
by managing his domestic concerns, in which there were leaks he 
could neither understand nor stop, while at the same time he would 
have the only companionship he cared for. Not that he meant to 
be parsimonious with his wife : for it would reflect upon him, and 
throw a sort of discredit on his prosperity for her not to appear and 
live as other ladies did, but it would have to be in moderation. He 
took his sister — whose husband had settled in the same city — into 
his counsels so far as to tell her that he had made up his mind to 
marry, and ask her advice as to what preparations he had best make. 
The result was that he rented a more commodious and modern 
house than the den he had lived in so long, which Was in an obscure 
street ; and in a nice quarter of the city, which, assisted by his sister’s 
good taste, he furnished handsomely for the bride whom he hoped 
soon to bring into it. Then, when everything was ready, it suddenly 
occurred to him that Cecilia Reid may have forgotten him, or mar- 
ried some one else, or perhaps be dead. His sister — Mrs. Waite — 
never dreamed but that all the preliminaries of his intended marriage 
had been arranged in the usual way ; and if the methodical man of 
business had told her that he did not even know whether the lady 
were living, dead, or married, she would have felt some natural ap- 
prehensions of his sanity. Caleb Weston’s avarice and his business 
now sunk to a secondary place in his thoughts ; he mentioned his 
dilemma to no one, but telling his sister that he had to go out of 
town for a day or two, he posted without delay to the little village 


TANGLED PA THS. 


II 


nestling amongst the hills of North Maryland to see whether it were 
weal or woe that he should find. To his deep joy he learned that 
Cecilia Reid was living and well, and that she was engaged in teach- 
ing in the family of ex-Governor Osborne, whose country-seat, 
“ Ravenwold,” was five miles off. They told him, too, that she had 
grown to a beautiful womanhood, and was beloved by every one, rich 
and poor, for her virtues. He learned these particulars more in de- 
tail afterward from the good old Catholic pastor, who had a small 
congregation in the village, and who had known Cecilia and her 
parents all their lives, and who hoped in his heart that the inquiries 
made by this grave, gentlemanly man, presaged some good for the 
brave, pious, gentle girl. 

Caleb Weston thanked Father Ryan for his information, without 
making himself known to him ; then he hired a light wagon and drove 
without delay to “ Ravenwold,” where he was welcomed by his old 
favorite — after she made out who he was — as a brother. He ques- 
tioned her : and she told him, between smiles and tears, of her past, 
then reminded him of this and that incident of their school days, until 
the man found his cold, calculating self thawing in the sunshine of a 
nature more exalted and pure than his own, and he was almost 
tempted to imagine that his life heretofore had been as unreal as it 
had been joyless. Before they parted he told her what had brought 
him there. After her first surprise, Cecilia Reid did not pain him 
by a brusque refusal, but gently and gravely reminded him that 
although they had known each other as children, the long time be- 
tween then and now had, in reality, made them strangers to each 
other. 

“ I am not so good as you are,” he answered, hurt at her hesita- 
tion ; “ but I have nothing to be ashamed of in my career. I have 
won an independent position, and am able to take care of my wife 
when I marry.” 

“ But marriage is a serious business, and I was not thinking of 
your worldly affairs, Caleb — there are other things to be considered 
when two people risk their earthly happiness, and perhaps their very 
hereafter, by entering a state which you know we Catholics consider 
indissoluble.” 

“ I should never interfere with the religious faith of my wife or 


12 


TANGLED PA THS. 


family. I have no belief myself — perhaps I am passively an infidel 
— not from conviction, but because I never give such matters as 
creed and dogma the least consideration. I have no time for such 
things, and yet — strangely as it may sound — I would not marry an 
irreligious, worldly-minded woman if she had the world in her sling. 
I want a home , and I want a wife who can make my home the one 
sacred, happy, restful refuge that I have on earth. That is the reason 
I have left my affairs down yonder, and come up here among the 
hills to find you, and place my happiness, hopes, and future in your 
hands.” 

“ I must think it over ; I must take it to my Blessed Mother for 
guidance, Caleb ; you know that she has been the star of my life’s 
troubled sea,” said the young girl, lowering her eyes to conceal the 
tears that filled them ; “ I never take any step without going to 
her.” 

“ I am glad that you take comfort in such a belief, but I hope you 
may not be induced by any phantasm of your imagination to cast 
me off ! And I must tell you that my business affairs exact almost 
my entire attention ; even now, but for the great hope I have, I 
could not lose a day.” 

“And are you so swallowed up by worldly interests, as all that?” 
she asked, with a look of sad wonder in her eyes. “ Now I see in- 
deed that you need help.” 

“Yes, I need help; and I want no help but yours. I will come 
again to-morrow ; I must hurry back,” he said, looking at his watch ; 
“ I have to dispatch some letters by the evening mail, to — to the 
firm which employs me.” Then he wrung her hand, and drove off, 
leaving Cecilia astonished and bewildered at the sudden change that 
had come into her life, filling her with uncertainty, and almost dread ; 
she went out upon the lawn, and seeking her favorite seat, shaded 
and sheltered from observation by a beautiful growth of old trees 
and shrubbery, she threw herself upon the rustic bench, to think it 
all over, and go over her rosary, before she returned to the bustle 
of the school-room. 

Caleb Weston’s wooing prospered, and in three months from .that 
day he and Cecilia Reid were quietly married by Father Ryan in the 
sacristy of the secluded village church, with only three or four friends 


TANGLED PA THS. 


13 


to witness the ceremony. He had told her nothing of his prosper- 
ity, or of his rapidly increasing riches ; he had simply assured her that 
his business would yield them a comfortable support, for he had a mind 
to be taken for himself alone, and not even afford the one he had 
chosen for his wife the temptation of accepting him for his money. 
In this case he need have had no such apprehensions, for there 
never lived a more unworldly being, or one more utterly devoid of 
self-interests, than Cecilia Reid; she was perfectly content with his 
statements, and expected nothing more than moderate comfort, and 
a life of domestic effort, interpersed with the trials and lights and 
shadows which usually fall to the lot of women whose husbands are 
engaged in the struggles and vicissitudes of business life with small 
or no capital. Imagine, then, her surprise, and his quiet delight, when 
he led her into the beautiful home he had prepared for her recep- 
tion, and told her that it was all hers, and that she was its sole 
mistress. 

This wooing and marrying was the one romance of Weston’s life, 
and he was supremely happy in its fulfillment, the realization of his 
dream so far surpassing its promise. The virtues, the intelligence, 
and loveliness of his wife’s character appealed to all the dormant 
good that lay under the hard substance of the man’s character ; he 
saw how religion refined and consecrated her natural traits, and how 
beautiful, without ostentation, it made her daily life. A devout 
Catholic, she was consequently a good wife, whose example had 
already, in due time, been the means of the conversion of her hus- 
band’s sister, Mrs. Waite ; and was, all unconscious to himself, lead- 
ing him gradually to better aims and higher aspirations than those 
of his sordid past. 

But a sudden and dark eclipse threw its shadow upon all this 
happiness : a morning came whose sun rose upon the young wife, 
living, loving, hoping, whose setting beams shone like a halo upon 
her dead face as placid and white as the carven image of a saint; 
and there were only the stifled sounds of a man’s grief and the wail 
of a new-born child, and the soft fall of muffled footsteps to break 
the silence of the home which was so recently the abode of peace 
and happiness. That very morning Cecilia Weston had partaken 
of the Adorable Sacrament, of the “ Bread which cometh down from 


14 


TANGLED PA THS. 


heaven/’ which, “whosoever eateth thereof, shall the Father re- 
ceive;” little dreaming that it was her Viaticum ; and her last act 
before leaving the church had been to kneel before the Altar of the 
Mother of Jesus to offer herself with sweet humility to her as her 
handmaid, and commend to her tender care her husband, herself, 
and her unborn babe, all unknowing that before the stars arose in 
the purple heavens she would be received into everlasting habita- 
tions, and behold the glory of Those whom she had adored and 
loved upon earth. God had given her brief earthly happiness after 
the patiently and bravely-borne trials of her young life ; now He 
had crowned her with eternal rejoicings ; but her home and the hu- 
man hearts that most loved her were left desolate. Caleb Weston’s 
heart grew full of bitter revolt the more he thought over the inscru- 
table providence which had taken from him the light and solace of 
his life, just when it was beginning to dawn upon his mind what was 
the true end and aim of his creation ; leaving him with a motherless 
child, which he did not know in the least what was to become of, 
and which he did not even care to see ; and throwing him back, as 
it were, on his old, hard life, a desolate man. 

This first marriage was the idyl of Caleb Weston’s life, and as 
time wore on, he held its memory apart and separated from every 
other thing, crystallized in the barren strata of his existence, em- 
balmed and sacred — but which had no softening or revivifying effect 
on his benumbed nature. y He took his little girl, when she was three 
years old, away from his sister’s care, and placed her with her moth- 
er’s aunt, who was Superior of a Convent of the Holy Cross, to be 
reared and educated, thinking that it was what his dead wife would 
have desired, had time been given her to tell her last wishes. The 
gentle religious, after considering the responsibilities of so young a 
charge, and the circumstances under which the application was 
made, consented to receive the child, whose lovely face and winning 
little ways had already touched her heart with a yearning, tender 
sympathy. 

“ Not to make a nun of her,” he said gravely ; “ I wish none of 
that. I would have let her remain with my sister, but there’s only 
one girl, and too many boys there ; so I have acted on what I believe 
would have been her mother’s wish.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


15 


“ Your confidence shall be respected, Mr. Weston. ‘ We can not 
give your child a vocation for a religious life : that is a celestial gift ; 
but, on the other hand, we can not make her a worldling.” 

“ I do not wish that ; make her like her mother and I shall be 
satisfied,” was the grave answer ; and there was a quiver in the 
man’s hard chin, a. tremulous movement of his eyelids, a flush, and 
a knotting of the veins of his forehead : it was the momentary asser- 
tion of nature over his iron self-control, but he gulped back the 
emotion, shook hands stiffly with the good nun, and went his ways, 
leaving the child’s nurse, Barbara, at the Convent with her until she 
became accustomed to the strange faces in her new home. 

After this, Weston the banker — as he w r as known — now 
senior partner of “ our house,” the others having realized princely 
fortunes and retired, made some audacious speculations, which 
caused business men to hold their breath with astonishment, and 
predict that he would be ruined ; but they had scarcely settled them- 
selves to that conclusion when the wheel turned, and brought at 
least another million into his coffers. What drinking and gaming 
are to some men, money-making became to him — a feverish, ab- 
sorbing excitement ; he triumphed with intense satisfaction in his 
gains ; and attained his end always — by whatever means, fair or 
foul, he grew not to care which, so he won. It was whispered that 
much dirty work was done for “ our house,” for the execution of 
which a special agent, who did not mind soiling his fingers, was 
retained and salaried. And at last the time came when “ our 
house” ranked respectably with those of the Rothchilds, the Bar- 
ings, and others ; it was quoted in the great marts of the world, and 
planted its branches in foreign lands, while at home the confidence 
it inspired was unlimited. But “ our house,” great as it was, did 
some very little things ; as, for instance, when a widow, forced to the 
alternative by delayed remittances, asked a small loan, and was told 
in a tone that put an end to all pleading, that “our house” never 
negotiated loans except on regularly endorsed paper ; or if a man 
applied for temporary help until he could realize certain assets, to 
save him from bankruptcy, “our house” was courteously sorry, but 
such transactions were entirely outside its regular and legitimate 
business ; and once a young and honorable man, whose integrity 


i6 


TANGLED PA THS. 


none had ever doubted, closely hampered by some of those com- 
mercial vicissitudes which the most experienced and clear-sighted 
can not foresee in time to avert the consequences, was driven by 
the merciless dealings of “ our house ” to desperation and self- 
destruction. “Our house” would not have missed the loan which 
would have saved him, body and soul, even had it never been re- 
paid, but such were “ our ” ways. Is it any wonder that the proph- 
ets announced woe to the rich ; or that the God-Man pleaded in 
merciful warnings to them to “ make friends of the mammon of un- 
righteousness ” by acting as the stewards of His Father in distribut- 
ing their superfluous goods to the destitute and needy ? 

“Our house” prospered, until Caleb Weston scarcely knew the 
extent of his riches. One day it occurred to him that it would be a 
very proper thing for him to set up an establishment, and do as 
other rich men did ; his ambition was aroused to let the world see 
and admire the splendor of that for which he had toiled so many 
years ; in short, he felt that it would be a fine thing to set up the 
golden calf he had made, that men might fall down and worship 
it. He knew the world so far. He forthwith gave orders to arch- 
itects and builders for the erection of a palace, in which no expense 
was to be spared to make it the most perfect of its kind ; and as it 
drew near to completion an agent was sent to Paris for furniture. 
Half ashamed of his prodigality, he excused it to his business ac- 
quaintances who were familiar enough with him to refer to his pri- 
vate affairs, by saying that his daughter, who was nearly grown, 
would be coming from school in a year or so, and he wanted to 
have a home ready for her in which nothing should be wanting that 
could make her happy. 

When all was completed, Caleb Weston took possession, he and 
old Barbara and his man-servant, who had grown gray in his service. 
But the silence of the lofty rooms chilled him ; their splendor seem- 
ed to mock him \ memories that he would fain have forgotten, or 
strangled, haunted him, and his own footfall over the tesselated hall- 
floor, or over the rich Persian carpets gave back an echo that 
sounded like phantom feet on his track. And yet the man had 
committed no crime of which the law could convict him ; he had 
done nothing that other men in his circumstances were not doing 


TANGLED PATHS. 


1 7 


every day ; his honor was unassailable ; no one could point to a 
flaw in his integrity ; but the memories of his vanished happiness, 
and shadows of remorse for things done, and left undone, in his 
long prosperous career, by which he had sacrificed to Moloch the 
very brotherhood of nature, and trampled underfoot into the mire 
the seven beatitudes, would come ; he could not banish them, for all 
his habits of thought but served to evoke them ; he had no outside 
resources, love of books, love of art, or thirst for science, to fall 
back upon. He could not bear it, and was on the eve of going back 
to the hotel where he had lived ever since the breaking up of his 
first home, when incidentally an old business friend dropped in to 
see him one evening, who, after inspecting the splendors of the 
house, told him bluntly he ought to marry again ; marry a woman 
who would grace his fine establishment and give his name that aplomb 
and eminence in the social world that was its right in the financial. 
He changed the topic immediately, for the great banker allowed no 
interference in his private affairs ; but he did not go back to his old 
rooms at the hotel, and, contrary to his previous habits, left within a 
few weeks to travel a month or two, it was supposed for his health, 
for it had been observed lately that he looked haggard, and that he 
left the bank at an earlier hour than usual each day. 

News came one day — by a letter to his agent — announcing that 
he was married, and desired that everything at the “ new house,” as 
it was called, should be made comfortable by the ioth, as he ex- 
pected to be at home on that day. He had written also to his sis- 
ter, Mrs. Waite, asking the aid of her taste, and her knowledge of 
what the requirements of the occasion would be, to give directions 
and superintend affairs generally. He had met the lady he married, 
he briefly informed her, “at the Isles of Shoals ; she was a widow, 
rich, without children, and a Catholic,” the last fact being a recom- 
mendation to him on account of his daughter, he added — “as it 
would prevent religious discords.” 

If Caleb Weston’s second marriage was not happy, no one ever 
knew it ; it was only noticed that he grew colder and more reticent 
of manner, but that was imputed to pride of wealth, and the world 
was tolerant of it ; he was also harder and sharper in his business 
transactions than ever before. After two years, another daughter 


i8 


TANGLED PA THS. 


was born to him, who was christened with great pomp and splendor, 
so swathed in costly laces and fine India fabrics as to remind one 
of the great Llama of Thibet, instead of the Divine Babe of Beth- 
lehem in His “ swaddling clothes’ ’ of coarse linen, while the 
godparents were leaders of the very pomps and vanities which 
they, on behalf of the child, renounced solemnly at the altar in 
presence of God and man. This accomplished with great blat, and 
duly described in all the papers, the child was left in the care of 
nurses ; while the fashionable mother ran the rounds of fashionable 
follies. “ How strange ! ” you will say, “ and she a Catholic ? ” 
Even so. Have you never seen such Catholics, dear reader ? 
Catholics who like Ichabod struggle under two burdens, and try 
their best to do that which Christ Himself declares to be impossi- 
ble, by the attempt to serve two masters ? who waste their lives in 
the futile effort to strike a balance with religion against the world, 
the flesh, and the devil ? There are such, sad to say ; and, sadder 
still, they instill by example, which is far more pernicious than pre- 
cept, the principle of making religion subservient to the worlds into 
the innocent, unreasoning minds of their children. 

The church attended by Mrs. Weston was in the fashionable 
quarter of the city, and many distinguished and titled foreigners, 
besides persons of wealth and fashion, belonged to the congrega- 
tion ; “ then, all the nicest people in society were church-goers of 
this, that, or the other denomination,” and Mrs. Weston’s good 
taste, more than piety, urged her not to fall behind ; “ indeed, she 
thought it to be quite the duty of one in her position to set a good 
example.” So it was not in the spirit, but in the letter of the law that 
she acted. She, therefore, did not fail in a tolerably regular attend- 
ance on divine worship, during the season , and all through Lent 
— which was strictly en regie — after that she went to some fash- 
ionable resort, where she quite rested from the exactions of religion. 
The poor, this woman did not know, except by a picturesque idea ; 
their squalor, their tears, their destitution, their rags and disease and 
dirt would have made her ill with disgust, and thrown her into hys- 
terics ; but she never failed in largesse to charities which blazoned 
her name on a public list ; she gave marble pillars to a sanctuary ; 
or windows of costly stained glass, or a gift of rich altar-lace, or a 


TAJVGLED PA TBS. 


19 


splendid painting after the old masters, to churches ; she was a lady- 
manager of one asylum ; a directress of a “home,” and she thought 
she was fulfilling the whole Christian law. 

And her child — little Edyth — to whom nature had been lavish in 
gifts, had been led, during her mortal life of ten years, in those be- 
wildering paths, so bright and flowery on the surface, but which are 
in truth like the Southern bayous , gay with tropical blooms, with 
quagmires and loathsome creeping things beneath. 


CHAPTER II. 


It is mid-winter, the time, twilight ; a beautiful, steady glow from 
the grate sheds a warm light throughout the apartment, and brings 
partially out of the shadow the form of a lady, dressed in mourning, 
who leans back against the cushions of her chair. Her pale, slender 
hands lie restfully together on her lap, and her soft, white hair is 
covered with a widow’s cap. Her face is turned toward the shadowed 
recess near her, showing her profile clearly cut against it. It is a 
sad face, now that it is at rest, very regular in its outline, yet full of 
firmness, and an expression showing that she possessed her soul in 
patience. The dark crimson window curtains, the old-fashioned 
mirror, and furniture, are of the style of a by-gone century, while all the 
belongings of the apartment suggest only ideas of comfort, and of a 
mind indifferent to change. A stand filled with books, a portfolio of 
fine engravings, and a few good paintings upon the walls, show also 
intellectual and cultivated taste. 

The lady’s self-communings, as she sits there solitary and motion- 
less, are evidently not gloomy ; the serene content that is diffused 
over her 'countenance shadows forth things altogether lovely to con- 
template, which the perfect stillness and seclusion of this, to her, the 
first quiet hour of the day, bring forth as light risen out of darkness. 
You will not think these expressions exaggerated when you learn that 
she had that morning received Holy Communion at one of the early 
Masses, and grow better acquainted with her character. 

“ Oh, mamma ! mamma ! are you here ? ” exclaimed a voice ; then 
there was a rush, and Clara Waite had her arms about her mother, 
and was kneeling on the rug beside her, kissing her face. “ Aunt 
Weston would take me home with her and Edyth from church, 
mamma, and made me stay to dinner. I didn’t want to, at first ; 
then she said she’d send you word. You don’t mind, do you?” 

(?o) 


TANGLED PA THS. 


21 


“Mrs. Weston did send word, darling, and I don’t mind. But 
let us light up,” said Mrs. Waite, in her quiet, gentle way, as she 
rose to get a match. “Now I can see you, Clara.” 

“ Oh, I’m always glad, so glad, to get back to my mammy after 
spending the day at Uncle Weston’s : for it’s all so grand and fine 
there, that it makes me sorry-like for you ; then when I get back to 
my own dear old home, I feel sorry for them, for if they all are ever 
so much richer than we are, I don’t think they are one-quarter as 
happy ; do you, mamma ? ” 

“ People are made happy by different means ; their way of living 
is happier for them than ours would be, while ours is the best for us.” 

“And, mamma,” — Clara went on, without going into the abstruse 
niceties of the subject by asking questions — “ Edyth had on such a 
lovely new suit, to-day, all trimmed with blue, and the dearest blue 
feather in her hat I ever saw; and Aunt Weston looked splendid ; 
but they came in awful late ! Father Conway was preaching, and 
he stopped till they got to their pew, and everybody turned and 
stared. I think I should have dropped.” 

“ You must take care to be always in time for Mass, seeing how 
much one loses by coming late ; your aunt has a great many distrac- 
tions in that grand house of hers, which we are happily spared,” said 
Mrs. Waite. 

“ But you are always in time, mamma, and have more things to see 
after than Aunt Weston, who has a nurse for Edyth, and a maid for 
herself, and a housekeeper, and two or three other servants besides.” 

“ I should indeed have my hands full with so many people to 
manage,” said the good mother, smiling. 

“ She don’t rout everybody up to be ready in time for church like 
you do, mammy, and have early breakfast so that nobody’ll be hur- 
ried, but can get to the church door just as the second bell is ring- 
ing, and into our pew just as Father Conway comes out to sprinkle 
the people. We don’t lose a thing,” — Clara went on to say, hardly 
stopping to take breath. She was only twelve years old — a bright- 
eyed, rosy-cheeked, merry-faced lass, whose physique indicated per- 
fect health, and whose natural intelligence was above the average, 
and whose disposition showed many fine traits ; but she had a quick 
temper, and perceptions so keenly observant that Mrs. Waite’s in- 


22 


TANGLED PA THS. 


genuity was frequently taxed to give another direction to thoughts 
and expressions which the slightest encouragement would have 
fostered into a disposition for gossip and rash judgment. 

“ For which we should be very thankful, my child ; and those who 
are forced by any accident to do so are to be pitied, for there is no 
one thing, from the 6 Asperges } to the ‘ lie Miss a est] that one may 
miss without loss.” 

“ Then I think people should always get to church in time. Heigh- 
ho ! I wish I had some beautiful dresses like Edy til’s ; and do you 
know, mamma, she don’t care a snap for them ; she told me so. She 
says Aunt Weston makes her dress, and dress, till she gets so tired 
she’d like just to throw her finery in the fire and go like a beggar girl.” 

“I don’t think she meant that, really, my child. Girls are apt to 
talk a little at random when they are fretted.” 

“ But she said it, and more too, mamma ; she said she wondered 
‘ why her mother couldn’t let her be dressed like me;’ I told her that 
I thanked her, but / didn’t dress like a beggar girl; neither do I,” 
said Clara, her brown eyes sparkling with indignation. “ It made 
me right down mad.” 

“You misunderstood your cousin, my dear, I am very sure; 
because she said she’d like to dress like a beggar girl she did not 
mean that you did. Poor Edyth ! she would only be glad not to be 
teased,” replied Mrs. Waite, as her eyes glanced over Clara’s neat 
attire with a look of satisfaction ; the pretty, wine-colored merino 
dress and sack, trimmed with a darker shade of velvet ; her hat of 
the same rich color as her dress, with a crimson wing at the side ; 
her neat white linen frill and cuffs ; her brown curling hair, that 
framed her ruddy face so prettily, forming altogether a very attractive 
picture, which was in keeping with her age and her mother’s cir- 
cumstances. It often happened when the two cousins were out 
together that persons who observed them said of Clara : “ What a 
bright, ladylike-looking child ! ” and of Edyth : “ How over-dressed ; 
and how unbecoming such extravagance in the toilette of a girl so 
young ! ” 

“ Take off your wraps, darling, and lay them on the sofa ; there 
— come nestle down here again, and try if you can remember any- 
thing that Father Conway said in his sermon to-day,” said Mrs. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


23 


Waite, smoothing Clara’s curling hair away from her forehead, where 
its glossy rings were always straggling ; and anxious to change the 
current of her thoughts from possible envyings and jealousies. 

44 I can’t remember much, mamma. I forgot that you stayed 
home from High Mass to let nurse go, or I — I think I should have 
paid more attention,” replied Clara, in some little embarrassment. 
“ He said something very often about the 4 birds of the air,’ and the 
‘ lilies of the field’; I was listening with all my ears, when Aunt 
Weston and Edyth came in, then I began to look at Edyth’s lovely 
dress, after I go* over feeling bad about their coming so late, and 
so — well, you see, mother, I only caught something here and there.” 
Clara always said “ mother ” on solemn occasions, and this to her 
mind was one. 

44 I think I can refresh your memory, little woman,” said Mrs. 
Waite, not noticing. “ These are the words of our dear Lord : 
4 Behold ! the birds of the air : they reap not, neither do they gather 

into barns, yet your Heavenly Father feedeth them Consider 

the lilies of the field : they sow not, neither do they spin, but Solo- 
mon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.’ ” 

44 That is just what he preached about, mother; now I remember 
the words ; but I do not understand them, nor do I know what 
Solomon’s glory was, but I don’t think there’s anything on earth 
half so beautiful as a St. Joseph’s lily.” 

44 The glory of Solomon means the magnificence of an earthly 
king who was famed for his wisdom and his riches throughout the 
world. And the dear St. Joseph’s lily, which is one of the wild 
field-flowers of Judea, is not a flaunting blossom, Clara; it is so pure 
and modest and humble that its head is ever bowed, and its golden 
treasures are kept hidden within its very heart. It does not envy 
the rose, the pomegranate, or the tali cedar ; it does not envy 
the ‘garden of spices,’ but is content with its own delicate perfume, 
which arises like incense from a pearl chalice, when the dews fall 
upon it amidst the shadows and stillness of night ; it is like the 
4 king’s daughter whose beauty is from within.’ ” 

44 What you say is very beautiful, mother; but I do not under- 
stand it.” 

44 It means that a pure heart confides with simple trust in God’s 


24 


TANGLED PATHS. 


promises ; that we must not make a parade of virtues or graces, but 
keep them hidden like jewels in a casket; or, like the ‘king’s 
daughter,’ only allow their effulgence to be seen — as of a lamp in an 
alabaster vase — in our good works. The words of our Lord also 
teach us not to fix our affections on human things, on riches and 
grandeur, or the vanities of the world ; which never fail to harden 
the heart and lead it away from its supreme and eternal good.” 

Mrs. Waite kissed Clara’s fair, frank brow; she noticed the grave, 
thoughtful expression that had gradually stolen over the young face, 
but did not seek to penetrate her thoughts — thoughts which were 
just then pondering the possibility of her ever becoming like the 
“ king’s daughter,” and wondering if that royal young person — for of 
course she was a young girl — ever wanted the fine clothes she used 
to see on people at church ? The allegory and its application were 
a little mixed up in her mind, but she resolved in her heart to “ try 
to be modest and humble ; then I guess I’ll somehow grow to be 
like the lily of the field. I’m awfully afraid, though, I shall never be 
able to see pretty things without wanting them ; or have a — ” 

“A contented heart, little daughter, will make you like the lilies of 
the field,” said Mrs. Waite. 

“How did you know, mamma, that I was just thinking of those 
very words — a ‘ contented heart' ?" asked Clara, startled from her 
reverie by the coincidence. 

“ I did not know it, darling ; I only know that it is a precious 
boon of grace to have in our earthly pilgrimage ; and that one can 
not too early begin to pray for it. But take up your things, and go 
put them away ; then see where the boys are, for mamma,” said 
Mrs. Waite, who did not think it would be wise to prolong a serious 
conversation like this, with one so young, when it was evident that 
her words had made an impression, and, like seed fallen in good 
places, must be left to take root and grow. 

Clara ran up-stairs to her room to put her wraps and hat away, 
and while doing so heard the boys’ voices in the play-room, a large, 
well-lighted apartment over the dining-room, whose only furnishing 
was a stout rope-matting, a large round table, covered with green 
baize, in the center, and a dozen hickory chairs with splint seats. 
There was also a book-case, large, perfectly plain, and filled with 


TANGLED PA THS. 


25 


juvenile books, interspersed here and there with those of a more 
manly sort, such as travels, biographies, experiments in chemistry, 
natural history, and an illustrated work on comets. This book-case, 
although made of oak, was battered and dented by unlucky blows of 
bat and ball, when they missed their aim ; of stray arrows, when, on 
stormy days, the place was not only turned into a base-ball ground, but 
a shooting-gallery ; while the bust of Socrates above it had lost the end 
of its nose and a corner of the mouth, which gave to the wise man’s 
image a reckless and absurd expression. They didn’t know or care 
much about Socrates yet ; but their Aunt Weston had sent it, when the 
play-room was being fitted up, as a very appropriate ornament for the 
top of their book-case. There was a cupboard in a corner, where their 
traps and old shoes were kept ; and the walls were ornamented by 
their bows, and quivers full of arrows, their fishing-rods and tackle, 
and some — what they called — jolly pictures, high-colored prints of 
athletic games ; famous dogs ; one of Grace Darling, going in her little 
skiff, through waves that would have swallowed up a man-of-war, to 
the rescue of people on a wreck ; and one of George Washington, 
hanging side by side with Napoleon Bonaparte — the two heroes of 
their boyish worship. Dear to them were these gorgeous prints, 
bought with their own pocket-money ; I doubt if in after years they 
ever saw anything in the famous galleries of Europe that gave them 
the same unalloyed delight as their boyish collection. Over the 
mantel-piece, however, was a large, fine engraving — their mother’s 
Christmas gift — of “Christ subject to His parents”; the scene 
representing a carpenter’s shop where He was planing a beam of 
wood, under the direction of the Blessed St. Joseph, while the Virgin 
Mother sat apart, fashioning some homely garment for her Son. It 
was a simple composition ; but there were the three, Jesus, Mary, 
and Joseph, that trinity of human perfection and heavenly virtues, 
ever before the eyes of these Catholic boys ; and whilst it was no 
restraint on their innocent mirth, or their more stormy glee, it shed 
its own sweet, silent influence over them, so far that no unclean or 
profane word was ever uttered there ; and if one of their chums 
ever offended in that way, he was told bluntly “not to come again 
unless he could talk like a gentleman.” This apartment was their 
kingdom, and after study-hours they regulated its affairs and amused 


2 


26 


TANGLED PA THS. 


themselves there according to their mood, bringing in the comrades 
they liked best, and happy in the liberty their dear mother allowed 
them, without ever abusing it. 

They are in a merry mood, the three brothers, two of them in 
front of John’s low-wheeled chair, telling him some nonsense about 
a dog that had got into the lecture-hall the night before, where they 
had gone to see some experiments in optics and a famous collection 
of dissolving views ; and how the shaggy brute got under the benches 
and growled and snarled, frightening several old ladies nearly into 
fits. John laughed heartily ; everything about outdoor life inter- 
ested him, and it kept Con and Baste on the alert, wherever they 
were, to notice and remember whatever they saw or heard that they 
imagined would interest him. He was the elder of the three, and 
until he was two years old was a healthy, robust child, when he 
began to show signs of a mysterious disease, which kept him for 
months hanging between life and death, and from which he only 
rallied in part, for his limbs never regained strength, but dwindled 
away, until he entirely lost the use of them, and became a hopeless 
cripple. He had delicate, finely-cut features, like his mother’s, her 
eyes, and brown, curling hair like Clara’s, and white, even teeth — 
“ The best-looking fellow of us all,” Baste used to say, “ and has 
got more in his head than all of ours put together.” 

Here Clara found them, and waited a little while to hear what 
they were laughing so merrily about, which they good-naturedly re- 
peated, although at another time they might have told her “ they 
couldn’t tell what girls wanted to know everything for,” and held 
their tongues to rebuke her curiosity ; but now they wanted to have 
their laugh over, so she heard all about it, and entered into their 
gale of fun wuth a spirit that showed flattering appreciation of their 
^powers. Then she told them that her mother had sent her to look 
for them. ^ 

“Is mamma all alone?” asked Con. 

“ Yes, now she is.” 

“ Come, then, boys ; let’s go down to our queen mammy,” said 
Baste ; and he, being the largest and strongest, lifted John up in his 
arms, while Con possessed himself of his brother’s wheeled chair, and, 
with Clara leading the way, went carefully down the staircase to the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


2 7 


hall, where John was gently lowered on his cushioned seat, and 
rolled into the parlor, where the little procession was greeted with 
a loving smile, as they drew up and gathered around their mother. 

“ How nice it is to have all my merrymen around me, in this 
glow of beautiful light ; but where is Natalie ? ” 

“ Yes, where is she ? I thought she was here with mamma ! ” said 
Baste. 

“ I expect she is in her room, crying,” remarked Clara. 

‘‘Crying! what do you mean, my child?” asked Mrs. Waite, 
anxiously. 

“ I found her crying twice, mamma, when I went up to ask her 
something; — that is, I thought she was — but I didn’t like to ask her 
what was the matter, because she kept her face turned away, and I 
thought she wouldn’t like me to notice. I was awful sorry though.” 

“ That was right, darling. But go now, and be sure to tap at the 
door before you go in, and ask her if she won’t come down and join 
us,” said Mrs. Waite. 

“ I never saw her cry: she’s always as cheerful as a cricket,” said John. 

“ She wouldn’t cry before folks ; no ! I don’t believe she would 
even if she had a dreadful toothache,” added Baste gravely. 

“ Pshaw ! I don’t believe she was crying at all. Clara only 
thought so. What should she have to cry about here, I’d like to 
know ? ” observed John. 

“You must remember, my boy, that Natalie is all alone in the 
world — a stranger in a strange land, an orphan, and without kindred 
even in her native country. That she toils for her support proves 
that she has a brave heart.” 

“ I didn’t think of that, mother. Is she English ?” inquired Con. 

“ No ; Natalie is a Russian ; but you must not — any of you — 
question her,” replied his mother. 

“ Whew*! a Russian ! and she speaking such good American ! ” 
exclaimed Baste. 

“ The Russians acquire languages more easily than other people, 
I have been informed. Let the cat alone, Baste ! how should you 
like your ears tweaked so ?” 

“ ’Deed it don’t hurt her, mamma, her skin’s so loose ; see how 
she winks !” laughed Baste, folding back Grimalkin’s ears. 


28 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Just then a lady, holding Clara’s hand, entered the parlor. She 
was tall, and perfectly formed, her dress.of coarse black serge fitting 
closely. Her face was oval, pale, and her features finely cut ; her 
eyes of that marvelous gray-blue, seen nowhere in such perfection 
as in Russia, where they seem to take their hue and brightness from 
the sky when the air is full of glittering, floating particles of snow ; 
and they were overarched by black, even eyebrows, while her finely- 
shaped head was crowned by a profusion of hair so black and silky 
and so closely braided as to give it a most statuesque appearance. 

“ I hope you are glad to come to us, Natalie ? ” said Mrs. Waite, 
holding out her hand. “ Con, roll that sleepy-hollow chair over 
here for Natalie.” 

“ You are always so good, madame. I am very glad to come. 
I was just finishing a letter that I could not put off, as it would miss 
the steamer the day after to-morrow. Now I feel that something is 
not hanging over me.” 

You see that her phraseology was not exactly like our own ; there 
was, too, a little accent, an inflection, which betrayed her foreign 
origin, and gave a peculiar charm to her speech. 

“And how is my brave comrade this evening?” she asked, 
leaning over John’s chair. 

“Jolly! I’m the best off of all in the house, for I’ve got four 
legs?” said John, meaning the wheels of his chair. “Where have 
you been all day ? ” 

“ I went to the poor little church, where I go sometimes ; it gave 
me a nice long walk. Then I came home, very hungry for my din- 
ner, which I devoured like a — what is it you call him ? — a kite. 
Then I spend the evening to write the letter,” she pleasantly said. 

“ Who did you write to ? ” blurted out Clara, entirely forgetful of 
her mother’s orders to ask Natalie no questions. 

“ Oh — to somebody you do not know,” she answered after a 
pause, while a momentary contraction of her forehead, and a 
white pallor, gave for an instant an expression of bitter pain to her 
countenance. 

“ I forgot, mother ! ” said Clara, sorrowfully, in response to a re- 
proving glance from Mrs. Waite. “ Excuse me, please — ” 

“ Surely, dear Clara, it was a natural question for you to ask, but 


TANGLED PATHS, 


2 9 


you could not know who , even if I told you. Come, Sebastian, 
tell 11s something,” said Natalie, cuddling Clara’s hand between 
both her own. 

“ I don’t know anything to tell, long enough for that name ! ” re- 
plied Baste; then, as if struck by a new idea, he turned to his 
mother with a solemn look : “ Mamma, what ever did you give me 
such a name for ? ” They all laughed. 

“ Because St. Sebastian was a brave Christian hero, who suffered 
cruel torments and martyrdom for Christ, and I hoped my boy would 
have the same spirit of faith and fortitude to help him through life 
to heaven.” 

“I’d like that; but then I don’t want to be shot to death with 
arrows ; and I’d rather have a shorter name. I like Baste much 
better. The other seems sort of reverend ; and when you call me 
by it, mammy, I know there’s something in the wind, and it fetches 
me up ail standing,” said the boy, meaning no irreverence, and 
with a merry grin. 

“ Which proves that it is a good name* and I don’t know but that 
it would be the best plan to call you Sebastian all the time,” said 
his mother, smiling. 

“ Don’t ! don’t, mammy, if you don’t want me to run away ! ” he 
replied merrily. 

“ You’d better not go amongst the Indians when you do run off, 
old fellow, or you may get stuck with more arrows than you bar- 
gained for, and lose your scalp in the bargain,” suggested John. 

“Ow! don’t, John!” exclaimed Baste, spreading his big red 
hands out, over his head. 

“ My name is as long as yours, but I don’t mind,” said Con, 
coming up out of the depths of a reverie among the coals, where 
he had been building “ castles.” “ That is, not much ; but I shouldn’t 
like to be called by it. I tell you what, mother, such long names 
waste people’s breath, and shorten their days ! ” They all laughed 
at Con, whose name was abbreviated from Constantine, the one he 
received in baptism. “ I don’t see how I can ever be like a great 
king and warrior ! ” 

“He conquered by the Cross, Con ; can’t you try to do that?” 
asked Mrs. Waite, in grave, sweet tones. 


30 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ ’Deed I will, mother, all the way through ! ” he answered ear- 
nestly, bringing his fist down upon his knee, to add emphasis to his 
promise. His mother gave him a fond, approving look ; such a 
promise from Con was a sweet solace to her, for of all her boys he 
had the bravest will, and had never been known to go back on his 
word ; but she said no more — she never liked to make spiritual 
things irksome or tiresome to the young minds of her children ; but 
even more than that, she dreaded religious sentimentality , or what- 
ever might tend to disease their souls with a false conscience ; so she 
wisely avoided all precocious development of piety, preferring that 
they should be led, until they could walk steadily, and grow in grace , 
until their Christian principles should be firmly planted on the 
“ Rock of Ages ” for aye and forever. 

The young people fell to chatting, and Mrs. Waite asked Natalie 
if she had sent her letter to be mailed ? 

“ Not yet, madame.” 

“ Had you not better get Thomas to drop it into the post on his way 
home ? I do not think he is gone yet,” said Mrs. Waite, touching 
the bell near her. 

“ Thanks !” replied the girl, with a look of relief. “ I shall be 
very glad if he will take it.” 

Old Thomas’ brown visage, crowned with white wool, now ap- 
peared at the door, and Natalie drew her letter, which was ready to 
be mailed, from her pocket. 

u I want you to mail a letter for Miss Natalie as you go by the 
post-office, Thomas,” said his mistress. 

“ Certainly, ma’am,” he replied, with a little quirk of a bow, as 
the young lady placed the letter in his dusky hand, which he trans- 
ferred at once and carefully into his breast-pocket ; then, with 
another duck of his white head, he disappeared. 

“ He is so polite,” said Natalie, resuming her seat with an amused 
expression. 

“It’s a way he’s got ; he can’t help making those little bobs ; he 
bows to the coal-scuttle when he goes to fill it, and he bows to the 
cat when he takes him up by the nape of his neck to drop him out 
of the window into the area. He hates cats ! ” said Baste, laugh- 
ing. 


TANGLED PA TBS. 3 1 

“ His airs and graces never miss coming in at the right time,” 
observed John. 

“ He’s a faithful old friend. I don’t know how I should have got 
on without Thomas all these years.” 

“ How old is he, mother ?” John asked. 

“ I never heard; people of his race never show age until they 
get extremely old, and it is a rare thing to see them with white hair. 
He may be seventy or thereabouts ; he and my father were boys 
together, but he’s very touchy about being thought old.” 

“ It is so nice that he is not black ; I’m so afraid of those very, 
very black persons,” said Natalie, with a shudder. 

But who is Natalie? 

Natalie, then, is the governess of Mrs. Waite’s children. How 
she happened to be there I can tell you, but nothing more, for she 
is a mystery and an emigma to her friends, who know her by no 
other name than simply Natalie. 


CHAPTER III. 


Mrs. Waite, the sister of Caleb Weston, the banker, and his only 
near relation living, was a widow, having lost her husband three 
years before my story opens; and but for her fatherless little ones, 
to whom this sad event had made a mother’s care more than ever 
indispensable, she must have sunk under the blow that deprived her- 
self and them of their best earthly protector and friend. Mr. Waite 
had been, for years, engaged in the practice of law, struggling by 
slow degrees for success in his profession, which at last crowned his 
earnest endeavor. He was distinguished more for legal acumen 
than for forensic eloquence, or as a special pleader ; but as consult- 
ing counsel, as a slow, sagacious thinker, and for a peculiar faculty 
he possessed for tracing the clue of tangled and doubtful cases to a 
positive solution, he was without a rival in the State. He had a 
large and lucrative practice, and, a few years before his decease, 
had been appointed Judge of the Orphans’ Court, a position for 
which the specialties of his long experience eminently qualified him. 

Always happy in his domestic relations, a tender but just parent, 
Judge Waite had invariably sustained his wife’s influence over their 
children, by showing the most unlimited confidence, in her judgment 
and the management of the domestic kingdom — a thing that little folk, 
with their keen perceptions, are always quick to observe— but that 
which, after long praying, hoping, and patiently waiting for, crowned 
her life with almost perfect happiness, was, that her husband, won 
at last by the silent influence of her lovely example, and convinced 
by a deliberate and thoughtful investigation of the subject, entered 
the Catholic Church, rejoicing not only to have found the Truth, 
but happy, beyond expression, to know that he was now, indeed, 
united with his loved ones in the bonds of one Faith, one Lord, 
(32) 


TANGLED PA THS. 3 3 

one Baptism ; bonds which neither time nor death had power to 
sever. 

A happy, domestic, Christian home, without discord or bickerings, 
was this ; until, one gloomy evening in November, the Judge, who 
had been engaged several weeks in a difficult and painful case which 
involved heavy interests of two of his orphan clients, and their ruin 
if it failed, came home late, looking haggard and worn out, and com- 
plained of feeling very unwell. Mrs. Waite was not surprised at this ; 
she had expected it, seeing how he overtaxed himself, how irregu- 
larly he took his meals, and, from anxiety, lost his rest. Observ- 
ing the look of care that clouded her eyes, he drank a cup of hot 
coffee, and made a light meal of the delicacies she placed before 
him to tempt his appetite, and remained chatting with her and the 
children a short time before he retired. His case was to be decided 
the following day, and, although he arose with an indefinable sick- 
ness and languor throughout his system, he baffled all the anxious 
inquiries of his loved ones by brave, cheerful answers, and went 
away to' the Court, where his presence was indispensable. The 
case was won, but it was his last earthly triumph ; a low fever had 
already set in, and in a day or two he was unable to leave his bed. 
He felt at intervals a wavering of consciousness, a sinking into un- 
fathomable depths ; and when he slept, he dreamed of climbing 
hills that grew into mountains as he advanced, until their tops were 
lost in the clouds ; he was ever urged by an irresistible impetus to 
scale their highest pinnacles; on, on, on, until, awaking with a start, 
it would require several seconds for him to collect his ideas. These 
warnings were sufficient ; his reason was still intact, and subject to 
his will, and, as he desired to spare Mrs. Waite that which might be 
after all an unnecessary alarm, he asked the favor of his physician, 
when he came, to call at the residence of the Jesuit Fathers, and 
leave word — if he could not see him — for Father Plunkett to come to 
him as early as possible ; and also to stop at the office of his legal 
friend, Mr. Hanscom, to let him know that he was ill and desired 
to see him. The doctor was not a Catholic himself, but he had 
many Catholic patients, and understood their ways — soul first, medi- 
cine afterward ; and he never thwarted them, knowing, by long ob- 
servation, that the Sacraments of their Church invariably soothed 


34 


TANGLED PA THS. 


and placed them in conditions of composure, which contributed 
greatly to the efficacy of his remedies. In this instance his prac- 
ticed skill perceived symptoms that convinced him, if his patient 
had any affairs to settle, either temporal or spiritual, that there was 
no time to be lost ; and, driving immediately to both places, he 
was fortunate in finding the good Jesuit Father just stepping out of 
his door, to attend a sick call, and the lawyer just bolting into his, 
to get certain notes called for by the prosecuting attorney, which 
bore on a case he was defending. 

Both calls were responded to, and now. there was nothing left to 
be done; the sick man had “set his house in order ” by receiving 
the soul-sustaining Sacraments of his Divine Faith : absolution, the 
Holy Viaticum, and Extreme Unction ; he had arranged his tem- 
poral affairs — always kept by him in such systematic order — which 
required but little time and no distraction to dispose of finally ; 
nothing left to be done but to cast lingering looks of affection on 
his dear ones ; to say words to them which he knew they would 
remember afterward ; to offer the natural grief that would wring his 
fast-failing heart at the thought of leaving them, to Him who had 
suffered all things for the salvation of the world, and who, among 
the few promises of temporal solace He left, had said that He would 
protect and defend the widow, and be the Father of the orphan ; 
nothing more to be done but to whisper courage to the faithful 
heart that hovered day and night around him ; whose tears flowed 
silently, drenching his pillow or hand, when she thought the lethar- 
gies into which he dropped at intervals was sleep ; nothing more 
but to drift into the obscure abyss of unconsciousness, from which 
he awoke no more, until all that was mortal of him was mute and 
immobile, swallowed up in the white mystery of death, and his 
spirit had passed into the “ Land of the Living,” to be rewarded 
according to the deeds done in the flesh. 

We pass over the grief of Mrs. Waite and her little ones ; bitter 
the bereavement and heavy the cross for her more than for them, for 
she was left desolate ; and the strong hand and heart, the unerring 
judgment, and firm, patient authority to which she had looked for- 
ward to aid her in her grave maternal responsibilities, was, by the 
inscrutable providence of God, removed, with all the solace of his 


TANGLED PA THS. 


35 


example, support, and companionship. . Mrs. Waite was not one of 
those natures who go about the world displaying wounds, and crying 
out, “ Pity me ! pity me ! ” She wrapped her sorrow “ in fine linen 
and embalmed it in spices,” by a resignation whose spirit was — 
“ Though Thou slay me, yet will I trust Thee;” and a fortitude 
which made her willing, when the plaints of nature let her will have 
sway, to bear all things for the love of God : thus consecrating her 
grief, and waiting the divine grace of courage, which would enable 
her to fulfill, as best she could, the double duties which now de- 
volved upon her. 

The world’s work must be done ; that which our hands find to do 
must be accomplished. Are there any who dare stand wringing 
their hands and blinding their eyes with tears at the grave, and 
wasting their strength in vainly calling upon their dead, who can 
no longer hear them, when life’s work is waiting for them to be up 
and doing, “ before the night comes when no man can work ?” Are 
there any who do not know that they will have to render an account 
at the Judgment-seat of how this world-work has been done ? How 
little is the work which fills up the measure of life taken into account 
by many people, except as a muddle and a bother from which they 
would fly, and do fly, until their neglect turns to scorpions in their 
own hands, which sting them unto death. 

Man’s work is on a lower plane, and more of the earth, earthy, 
than a woman’s ; he goes like an athlete into the struggle of life, 
and the excitement and fever thereof, like the troubled sea, bring 
him no rest ; he is the agitator of the world, whose ambition, lust 
of power, and greed for money, plunge it into wars or financial 
throes that sometimes threaten to overthrow all order ; >in the end 
he realizes his aims, or sees their destruction, but how rare it is, in 
either case, to find him possessed of that wisdom which makes man 
Christlike ! He has no time, he pleads, to turn himself aside from 
his work; the world’s progress would be brought to a stand-still if 
he did ; and so he rushes frantically on, giving but little thought, or 
thinking it yet time enough to do so, to the rewards which are eter- 
nal, while he expends the golden sands of life only for those which 
perish. 

But, as through woman sin came into the world, and as through 


3<5 


TANGLED PATHS. 


the sinless-elect Virgin salvation came, in the person of Her Di- 
vine Son, so through woman, the nursing-mother of the world, its 
regeneration will be wrought ; but not in the forum, or on the 
rostrum, or at the ballot-box ; or as the apostle of impure philoso- 
phies, or the iconoclast of chaste customs ; in none of these as- 
spects, but beside the cradle, in the bearing and training of children 
in Christian law and doctrine ; in preparing them for their great 
duties in the relations they may in after-life assume, as parents and 
citizens, teachers or lawgivers ; in the patient ordering of her house- 
hold on a Christian basis, helping to bear another’s burdens ; in the 
exercise of forbearance in the ever-recurring trials of life, in giving 
of tithes to the poor, in the practice of all Christian virtues, and 
in keeping her eye steadily fixed on the purpose of God in her 
creation and redemption. The “valiant woman” of the Script- 
ure typifies the True Woman, whose mission has so sublime 
a dignity and scope that language fails to describe it, and whose 
time is so occupied by its requirements that she dares not 
linger at the gate of Hades, crying fruitlessly for those who will 
never return again. No more for frivolity than for grief does she 
waste the golden grains of time ; nor is she ever at a loss for some 
good work to perform either for herself or others. Hard blows, 
then, for the man, strife with the world against error and want ; 
conflicts, that seem as with giants, that waste his life ; the noise of 
the rabble, the cross, and death for him ; for the woman, the sword 
that pierces the soul, endurance, tears, and serving with courage to 
the end ; then triumph and rest, for both, beyond the grave, if they 
have suffered all things in the spirit of Christ and Mary. 

To say that Mrs. Waite did not grieve, would be untrue, but her 
grief was not like that of those who have no hope ; for she knew 
that healing would come from the very Hand that smote her. Like 
the prophet of old, she “ate bread by the torrent,” the supernatural 
bread that strengthens the heart with the fullness of its presence, 
and the unfailing hope of its promise ; and, girding up her soul 
with the spirit of fortitude, she came from the chamber of mourning, 
with her face earthward, to take hold of the duties of her daily life. 
Her children were now at that critical age when impressions for 
good or evil are most easily made on the ductile mind ; it was nec- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


37 


essary at once to systematize a plan for their future government and 
education, and find, for the latter, a guide who would found it on- 
Catholic principles,, in 'a manner which would enlighten their minds 
as to the pre-eminence of religion above all human philosophies. 
After many solicitous inquiries of friends who would be likely to aid 
her in her object, Mrs. Waite heard of a private preparatory school, 
conducted by a gentleman who was a Catholic and a ripe scholar, 
who received only a limited number of pupils, and whose system 
had been remarkably successful. Her two boys, Con and Baste, 
were too young for college, and this seemed to be the very thing to 
suit her requirements, if the gentleman’s list of pupils was not al- 
ready full, which was indeed the fact ; but on learning the circum- 
stances of the case, he agreed to receive them, and they entered the 
day following, their frank, honest faces, and polite manners, making 
a favorable impression on their teacher. 

This difficulty happily adjusted, another arose. What was to be- 
come of John and Clara ? John could not go to school — afflicted 
as he was — and it would not do for him to be entirely without com- 
panionship in his studies ; on the other hand, she did not design 
that Clara should go through as severe a course as John’s quick in- 
telligence and thirst for learning required ; nor did she wish her to 
be taught by a master, fearing that her mind might imbibe a mascu- 
line cast, without really having depth to correspond with it ; while 
John, sensitive and shy, required gentle and sympathetic treatment, 
which but few men would know how to exercise beyond a clumsy 
kindness, or a good-natured awkwardness, which would make their 
object so apparent as to be wounding. At length, after days and 
nights of anxious thought, and ceaseless prayers for guidance, she 
determined to get a governess for them. But where could she 
hope to find such an one as she wanted : a woman learned enough 
to give John the same advantages, as thorough a knowledge of Greek, 
Latin, and other of the higher branches usually taught in a collegi- 
ate course, and at the same time be qualified by culture, accom- 
plishments, and gentle breeding to take charge of Clara ? Their 
religious training she would undertake herself, in case the lady 
should be so unfortunate as not to be a Catholic. Mrs. Waite’s 
friends thought her unreasonable, and wanted to know if she ever 


38 


TANGLED PA THS. 


expected to find the rctra-avis she sought ; but she told them that 
“ she thought she might, by perseverance. She knew there were 
highly-cultured and learned women in the world, and if she failed 
in obtaining one of this sort to undertake the education of her lame 
boy and her little daughter, she must then do the best she could. 
It was their father’s wish to have them well educated, and receive 
every advantage that would foster any talents they might develop ; 
consequently she was, in a measure, compelled to be very careful, 
lest, not being ^//-taught at first, they would have to unlearn what- 
ever there was false or injudicious in a previous system. She did 
not wish them to have a smattering, only, of what they undertook, 
as she was of the opinion that a surface-education was not only un- 
profitable in the extreme, but also gave a moral bias in the wrong 
direction to the youthful mind.” Her friends whispered among 
themselves, on their way home, that “ Mrs. Waite took too analyti- 
cal a view of the subject, and fancied that after all her high-flown 
notions she would be obliged to do as other people did.” 

Indeed she feared so herself ; for of several ladies who had called to 
apply for the situation, not one of them answered her requirements 
for her boy ; although, had she desired only a governess for Clara, 
there were two, gentle-mannered, intelligent, and accomplished wom- 
en, whose recommendations were so highly endorsed that she would 
have engaged one or the other of them without hesitation. But she 
would not, just for the object of sparing herself, give up her point. 
Meantime, John and Clara were losing time ; she was with them as 
much as possible, and they had daily studies ; but Mrs. Waite, who 
was sole executrix of her husband’s estate, had a great deal to at- 
tend to, in relation to it, which required her frequent absence from 
home, which, with her absolute duties at home, and the demands 
made upon her benevolence and sympathies by the destitute and 
suffering, whom she would never allow to be turned away from her 
door, really left her no time to bestow any systematic attention on 
their education, as simply rudimental as it was so far. But wearied 
and anxious though she was, she did not repine, but flew to her 
“ City of Refuge,” the shrine of Our Lady of Good Succor, im- 
plored her guidance and the gracious aid of her prudence, her wis- 
dom, and her submission ; with this beacon to illuminate her inten- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


39 

tions, how could she fail to be satisfied of the'r fitness or unfitness 
for God’s favor, in the result ? 

Do not grow weary, dear reader ; I promised you to explain how 
Natalie happened to be living at Mrs. Waite’s, and I am coming 
slowly, by a natural process, to the events that led to her coming. 

One night, after a more than usually fatiguing day, into which a 
new care had been introduced in the shape of a threatened lawsuit 
against the estate, about some city lots now become highly valuable, 
for which the original owner set up a claim, the man from whom her 
husband bought them, he averred, not having a valid title to the 
property ; upon inquiry, it was discovered that the man had been 
dead four or five years ; proofs were wanting, and the claimant 
seemed likely to have things his own way, which would be, in case he 
had, a serious loss to Mrs. Waite and her children. It was far in 
the night, but Mrs. Waite had not yet retired. She was reposing on 
a sofa near the fire, where, after the children had said “ good-night,” 
she had thrown herself in utter weariness, not noting how the hours 
passed, as she revolved her perplexities in her mind without being 
in the least able to get hold of a clue that would bring her safely 
out of their difficult windings. “ How vain are anxieties which lead 
to nothing ! ” she at length said, pressing her hands upon her throb- 
bing temples, and rising up as if she had suddenly awoke from an un- 
easy dream ; “ am I not in the hands of my Father in Heaven ? ” 
She sank on her knees, and with clasped hands and bowed head 
fervently whispered : “ I cast my cares upOn Thee, my God, hum- 
bly claiming Thy promise made to the widow and the orphan. # I 
covet no man’s goods, Thou knowest, nor would I see my little ones 
unjustly despoiled; but Thy will, not mine, be done. If I work 
blindly, dear Lord, save me from anger, and malice, and all desire 
of revenge, that I may not sin. Thy will be mine, obscured though 
it be by earthly interests ; but whatever it may be, my trust is in 
Thee forever.” 

Calmed by this act of faith, she put the matter out of her thoughts, 
only, however, to remember with pain that John had been sullen 
and idle all day — her John, who of all her children lay nearest the 
core of her heart,* and engrossed its deepest tenderness ; who had 
never before shown — toward her at least — the least insubordination or 


40 


TANGLED PA THS. 


anger ! Clara too, her bright- tempered, summer child, had shown 
signs of fretfulness, and been both disobedient and unruly. It was 
clear that something must be done at once, and she almost decided 
to engage a tutor to come two or three hours a day to John, and 
send Clara to school, as she had been advised. But not until she 
made one more effort ; for all at once she bethought herself of two 
old and dear friends who had been living abroad some years, and 
were now spending the winter in Paris, to whom she would write 
immediately, explain to them the why and wherefore of her difficul- 
ties, and beg the favor of them to interest themselves in securing a 
governess for her, knowing that she could place the most implicit 
confidence in their judgment. Mrs. Waite remembered having read 
that many women abroad, who chose the vocation of teachers, re- 
ceived the education of men, the same facilities for the profounder 
studies being, also, open to them, free of cost, as were the schools 
of painting and music ; the professors in all being masters in science 
and art, appointed by Government on their superior merits, and not 
because, owing to their necessities, their services could be got at a 
beggarly price. 

Mrs. Waite turned up the gas, touched the heap of soft coals in 
the grate, which crumbled into a thousand glowing and blazing frag- 
ments, then opened her desk and wrote her letter. While she was 
sealing it, the old clock on the stairs struck three. She had done 
all she could, and must await the event. “ Her letter would go out 
by the next Havre steamer, then she allowed a margin to give her 
friends time to inquire into the probabilities of their finding the sort 
of person she required ; and hoped to have it all finally settled in 
about six weeks. She knew that John missed Con and Baste, and 
she w r ould tell them the first thing in the' morning that they must 
spend all the spare time they had after school-hours with him, in- 
stead of playing out with their companions, until they just had 
time, after they came in, to eat their supper, study their les- 
sons, and go to bed. And she would let Clara invite one or two 
of. her little friends to spend the day with her; it was not in the 
nature of children to understand grief, or its seclusion ; like April 
storms, all sorrow is transitory to them, and it is one of the sweetest 
prerogatives of their innocence to have no knowledge or fear of 


TANGLED PA TffS. 


4 1 

death. The strange and disagreeable traits exhibited by John and 
Clara were only a revolt of nature against their loneliness, and the 
silence and sadness of- their home, which before their father’s death 
had been so bright and cheerful. No ! no ! they must not grow into a 
habit of associating his memory with gloomy and forbidding thoughts ; 
it must live and be cherished in their daily existence, even as his in- 
fluence when he was with them had always infused sunshine into 
their hearts. She would do her best.” And thus wisely arguing, 
the good Christian mother fell asleep, quite worn out with the ex- 
citing trials, both mental and physical, which she had experienced 
that day. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, to whom Mrs. Waite had so confidingly 
written, had known her ever since she was born, and she had not in 
the least miscalculated their zeal to serve her. It is about fourteen 
days since she mailed her letter to them — for she keeps count — and 
the excellent couple are sitting over their breakfast in their cosy 
drawing-room in Paris, the blocks blazing merrily in the polished 
grate ; and the sunshine, bursting in irrepressible golden flecks 
through the flowers in the bow- window, besprinkle every object within 
reach. There are mirrors, vases, statuettes, pompadour sofas and 
chairs, and all the other furnishing common to first-class drawing- 
rooms. The Bradfords were as happy a couple as we would meet 
with in a century ; they have a superabundance of wealth — honestly 
come by, I am glad to say — but they had no children, a grief to 
them, which counteracted a too close devotion to money. Mrs. 
Bradford had dreamed of a bee ; she was telling her husband about 
it, and wound up by saying that “ she knew she was going to get a 
letter ; ” but he, who had dreamed nothing, was uneasy about his 
Erie Railroad stock, and, feeling a little grumpy, asked her “ how 
she could be so silly as to believe in such nonsense ? ” just as 
Susette opened the door and came in, with a letter on a salver. 

“ For madame,” she said, pleasantly, with a nice little courtesy. 

“Thanks, Susette. I knew it was coming! It is from home, 
too!” exclaimed Mrs. Bradford, tearing open the envelope. “And 
it’s from our poor dear Louise Waite.” 

“ Bless my soul ! you don’t say so ! Come, let us go to the fire 
there and read it comfortablv,” said Mr. Bradford, pushing back his 


42 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


plate, and possessing himself of his wide, softly-cushioned arm-chair. 
Erie stock might go lip or down now ; he didn’t care for their value, 
and would have felt rather relieved if he had heard the whole con- 
cern was sunk ; for the constant expectation of being defrauded 
acted like a moral fly-blister on his mind when he allowed himself to 
go into the matter. Mrs. Bradford wheeled her low sewing-chair 
close up alongside, wiped her spectacles, and began, only stopping 
occasionally to wipe her eyes, and say : “ Poor dear child ! ” Mr. 
Bradford blew his nose at the same time, nobody knows for what, as 
he had not the least bit of a cold. When the letter was finished, 
they talked it over, then rang and ordered the carriage, determined 
in their reckless warm-heartedness to rush around and capture a gov- 
erness who knew all the dead languages and everything else, for their 
friend. There were numbers of such in Paris who would jump at 
the situation. It was not in either of them to imagine or suggest a 
difficulty, and I think that the reason why those sanguine sort of 
people sometimes meet with extraordinary success in their under- 
takings is becam e they yield themselves — without intending it — with 
such blind simplicity, to the guidance of Providence. The Bradfords 

had vague ideas of making inquiries of their friend, Madame R 

S , and Madame le Baronne de F , and even at the celebra- 
ted Pensionnat of Madame B , but beyond that they had no fixed 

plan for the day. But they met with no success in their inquiries ; 
it is true, their friends, with a show of interest, assured them they 
would think of the matter and speak of it to persons who might be 
able to assist them in their object, and only regretted their own in- 
ability to do so. They were not at all disheartened as they drove 
away from each place ; and Mr. Bradford, who could not get rid of 
his American ideas, nor indeed did he wish to do so, made light of 
their disappointments, and informed his wife that “ Rome was not 
built in a day,” then announced his determination to advertise in the 
daily papers of Paris and Berlin for “ Mrs. Waite’s governess,” as if 
she had already had her and she had eloped. The idea was as sen- 
sible and practicable as his way of speaking of it was funny. Then, 
as they had two hours to get rid of before dinner, he proposed going 
to the Louvre to look at a Titian bought for a fabulous sum from a 
beggared Italian prince by the Government, and just hung. Mrs. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


43 


Bradford was no connoisseur , and preferred new pictures, in which 
she could see with distinctness every beauty, to those time-stained 
old remains, which had no more charm or attraction to her than 
smoked glass. She had the tact, however, to keep her art-heresy to 
herself. There were plenty of bright pictures of the modern schools 
even at the Louvre, most of them very allegorical, very Frenchy, 
very nude, and very heroic, to interest her attention, and she offered 
no objection. They loitered around the gallery, after looking at the 
Titian, pleased according to their individual tastes, until it was time 
to go ; but just as they turned to do so they observed a young lady, 
mounted on one of those high portable steps, by which artists get 
near access to pictures hung high, sketching. Her beautiful figure, 
graceful in every line, excited Mrs. Bradford’s admiration, and she 
proposed waiting a few minutes, hoping she would turn her head 
and they might get a glimpse of her face. 

“ What in the world do you want to see her for ? I expect she’s 
hideous ! If I was an old fool now, like some others — ” 

“ Be thankful that you’re not, Joshua. I am. Be quiet ; she’s 
coming down. Oh — oh — oh — ” ended Mrs. Bradford, with a pro- 
longed shriek, as the young lady, in attempting to descend, tangled 
her skirt somehow around her feet and fell — fell with a heavy thud 
to the floor, where she lay motionless. 

In the next moment Mrs. Bradford was kneeling by her, her arm 
supporting the girl’s head, and her vinaigrette held under her nostrils, 
while Mr. Bradford, who never went out without a small flask of 
brandy in his pocket for emergencies — which, fortunately, he had 
never experienced until now — dropped a small quantity of it be- 
tween her white lips. Some one else opened a window, and in a 
little while she revived, whispered a few broken words of thanks, 
which, with the tears that she could not restrain, expressed more 
gratitude, her new friends thought, than their simple and spontane- 
ous act of humanity called for. They assisted her to rise ; but her 
ankle was sprained, she could not stand, and there was a great 
agony of pain in her chest, and a frightened woe in her face as she 
looked appealingly into their kind, sympathetic faces. 

“ Lean on me, my dear; and here’s my husband, who wishes to 
assist you. He’s old enough, you see, to be your father ; come, 


44 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


try now to think that he is. Don’t mind, my dear; he must put 
his arm around you so, to help lift you a little, for I’m sure you are 
not able to move a step by yourself — there now. We are going to 
take you home in our carriage, if you will tell us where you live,” 
said Mrs. Bradford, in her kind, motherly way, as she gave the 
stranger the support of her own arm, and in her sympathetic furore 
speaking in English without reflecting for an instant whether or no 
she would be understood. 

A spasm of pain had wrung the girl’s pallid features, and her lips 
were tightly compressed as if she would keep down a cry when 
Mrs. Bradford alluded to her father ; but that good lady, thinking 
that the hurt of the sprain caused it, only redoubled her assiduous 
care . 

“ Where shall we take you, my child ? ” asked Mrs. Bradford. 
“ But wait ; our driver knows every part of Paris, and you can tell 
him. Lean against me ; I’m very strong.” 

Almost borne along in the arms of these strange friends, the girl 
was at last placed, almost fainting with agony, in their satin-padded 
carriage, which had spring seats, cushions, and all the other lux- 
urious appointments of modern invention. She directed the coach- 
man, in a few words spoken in French, where to go ; then leaned 
back without noticing the man’s expression of mingled surprise and 
impertinence as he closed the door. He knew the place she named, 
and drove through many windings and turnings, until he reached 
the heart of the old cite , and finally stopped in a narrow, gloomy 
court, where the upper stories of the houses projected one beyond the 
other until those of the inmates who inhabited the highest flats could 
have shaken hands with their opposite neighbors from the windows. 
They were old, dilapidated, tumble-down -looking dwellings, whose 
walls bulged here and there, and whose quaintly-carved cornices 
and other ornamentations of fantastic architecture had dropped off 
in scraps or mouldered away, leaving great gaps ; whose windows 
were boarded up, or the broken panes stuffed with rags, crownless 
hats, and things too worthless to go to the Mont de Piete . No 
wonder the old houses were being despoiled of their bravery and 
gnawed away by the pitiless tooth of time ; cast-off splendors of the 
days of Henri of Navarre, inhabited in their prime by noblesse who 


TANGLED PATHS. 


45 


made them ring with high carousels, and through whose stately halls 
royal beauties had deigned to tread gay measures, the wonder is 
that there was a vestige left of them in all the changes that had 
swept like whirlwinds of blood and flame around them through the 
solemn centuries. But there they stood, tottering, sheltering only 
poverty and misery, their story telling, as no preacher could, how 
surely the glory of this earth perishes. 

There were no sidewalks ; the narrow cobble-stone court sloped 
down from the very houses to a noisome gutter in the center, 
through which the refuse of the neighborhood flowed to the sewers. 
This disreputable-looking spot was a new feature of Paris to our 
Americans, but it would have required something even worse than 
this to deter them from their benevolent purpose. It was growing 
toward dusk, and Mr. Bradford made haste to go to the door indi- 
cated by the girl, who was by this time almost too much exhausted 
to speak, and inquire of the concierge the number of the room oc- 
cupied by Natalie — the only name she had given — then, to Mrs. 
Bradford’s horror, which she kept to herself, her husband disap- 
peared with the yellow old man, whose head was tied up in a red 
handkerchief, and who had ear-rings in his ears, like an Italian 
bandit, into the dark, dreary depths of the hall, or whatever it was, 
beyond the vestibule. 

The moments stretched into minutes, the minutes into a quarter 
of an hour ; and Mrs. Bradford began to be miserable with the fear 
that her husband might have fallen into a den of thieves and been 
murdered. His costly watch, and chain with all those glittering 
bagatelles that he had picked up here and there, and would wear 
dangling from it — his diamond studs, his ring, his money ! — how 
could he escape from their clutches, with his life, with all that to 
tempt them ? And now to add to her distress, Natalie Hinted, 
and would have fallen to the floor of the carriage had she not 
thrown her arms around her in time and held her against her bosom. 
Turning her head anxiously toward the house, she saw a light glim- 
mer in the doorway ; it was the red-turbaned old concierge , holding 
a miserable lantern over his head, as he convoyed Mr. Bradford to 
his carriage. 

“ Oh, Joshua, I thought you were murdered ! ” exclaimed his 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


46 

wife, as he came to the carriage-window. “ Do get in, and let us 
go away from this miserable place.” 

“ Absurd ! I—” 

“ And oh ! she’s fainted ! ” 

“ I’m glad to hear it. I have been up to her room, ’way under 
the eaves — a starved, miserable-looking place, with such evidences 
of hard, bare poverty, that I could not bear the thought of leaving 
her there in her helpless condition. This old fellow tells me that 
she paints pictures for the print-shops, and says, in his extravagant, 
French way, that she’s an angel. She may be ; all I know is, that 
a woman who works and starves, must be respectable ; no matter 
how it is though, don’t let us leave her here.” 

“ Of course she must not be left here,” answered Mrs. Bradford ; 
“ give the man some money, and let us take her home. Poor child 
— she’s coming to ; where’s your flask ?” 

A few drops of liquor restored the unfortunate girl to conscious- 
ness. 

“ Now,” she whispered, “let me go. I live here, and Jean will 
help me. The thanks I would say, I can not ; the English is not 
yet easy for me ; but I shall never, never forget how kind you have 
treated a poor stranger.” 

“ I hear, my child, that you live very high up, near the roof, and 
that you have no one who is bound to look after you, in the house ; 
so what with that and the trouble you would find in getting up 
those long steep staircases, my wife and I want to take you home 
with us and nurse you.” 

“ Ah, monsieur, it is too much ; I am a stranger to you ; I — no 
— pardon me, but I must not take the advantage of your good- 
ness,” she replied, in low, broken tones, her pale face growing 
whiter as she spoke, with pain and suppressed emotion. 

“We will soon become acquainted, after we get home,” said Mrs. 
Bradford. 

“ But, madame, I am a stranger ; my history I can not tell; how 
will you know then that I am not an evil character ? how can you 
not suspect me when there is something I conceal ? ” she answered, 
with a wild, woful look in her eyes. 

“ We will take you on trust, my wife and I. Poverty is no dis- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


47 


grace, and a noble effort against fate keeps crime aloof. I saw all 
that, my child, in your room, and heard enough from the poor lame 
creature, up there, whom you help, to convince me that I am not 
deceived in you.” 

“ Jean,” she called to the old concierge , who still stood, his lamp 
flaming in the night wind, by the carriage, his ears strained to hear 
all that passed, but understanding not a word. A few words in 
French passed rapidly between them ; he waved his lamp with a 
flourish as he bowed his red-handkerchiefed head to his knees ; the 
girl leaned back in the corner of the carriage, and sobbed : “ I will 
come ; thank you.” 

Mr. Bradford got in and settled himself on the front seat with an 
ejaculation of relief, the door closed with a snap, and the coachman, 
infinitely disgusted at having his elegant equipage and himself de- 
tained so long in the disreputable-looking old court, gathered up the 
reins with alacrity, and whirled them homeward. 

Natalie was very silent, suppressing the slightest moan when the 
carriage wheels jolted over the stones, her mind and heart intro- 
verted and wrestling with her own bitter secret, whatever it might 
be, compared to the tortures of which her recent hurt, as full of 
agony as it was, seemed as nothing. At last the carriage stopped 
before the door of the Grande Hotel , where the Bradfords had an 
elegant suite of apartments, and, assisted by their own servants, 
Natalie was borne tenderly up-stairs, under Mrs. Bradford’s direc- 
tion, and laid upon a soft, low couch in the most beautiful of them 
all ; while her husband sought the maitre de hotel, to explain that 
his guest, for whom he wanted a physician at once, had no con- 
tagious complaint, but had fallen at the Louvre and hurt herself ; 
and that they had brought her home to be nursed. This was neces- 
sary to prevent inquiries, which would have been instituted, perhaps 
disagreeably, had any mystery been made of the affair. 

“ What physician, monsieur, will you have ? ” 

“ The best in Paris ; and look here, monsieur, include extra 
charges in my bill, and spare no expense when things are called 
for,” added Mr. Bradford. 

The man hurried away to send a message for the doctor ; he 
selected the most eminent in Paris ; proud to think his coupe would 


48 


TANGLED PA THS. 


be seen standing at the door of his hotel every day, and more than 
ever convinced in his mind that America was a fools’ paradise. The 
doctor came, examined the patient’s hurts, and discovered that she 
had fractured one or two small bones in her ankle, wrenched the 
muscles of her foot, and broken her collar-bone : and he wondered 
how she had escaped without dislocating her neck. “ There was 
no danger,” he said ; “ but the case would require time, and the 
patient would not be on a bed of roses during treatment. She had 
youth, her vitality was strong, and, best of all, she had courage.” 
All this in voluble French, of which the Bradfords caught enough to 
know what he meant ; then he went away, and returned before 
midnight with an assistant surgeon, administered ether, set the frac- 
tured bones, and, when Natalie awoke, or revived, she was so com- 
fortably bandaged, and felt so comparatively easy, that she swal- 
lowed a cup of tea, and promised the doctor not to move until he 
gave her permission to do so. A sedative, combined with exhaus- 
tion, gave her a night of uninterrupted sleep. 

And so weeks passed away, and at last Natalie’s hurts were en- 
tirely healed ; she was ready, and wished, she told her friends, to go 
back to her life of poverty and toil. That she was grateful beyond 
words they never doubted, but they saw that she winced under the 
obligations heaped upon her with such generous profusion ; and, 
without taking advantage' of the situation to extort a promise from 
her to live with them altogether, they advised and persuaded her to 
defer going, from time to time, until she had absolutely become 
necessary to the childish pair. She told them that her name was 
Natalie ; but nothing more. There was a mystery of some sort in 
her life, they felt assured ; some deep, corroding grief that she 
brooded over in silence ; for, one day, they surprised her, when she 
thought they were out, walking to and fro the apartment, wringing 
her hands with every sign of frenzied distress. Was it remorse ? 
Was it repentance ? or was it grief over some frightful loss that had 
made a chasm in her life, too wide and deep for even hope to span ? 
They could not understand, for when they sought to comfort her, 
she only cried out the more : “ Let me go away ; I have no right to 
be here ; ” and sank fainting at their feet. But they had that right 
which humanity and a divine sentiment of charity gives, to shelter 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


49 


and defend one so friendless, who, if innocent of evil, deserved pro- 
tection from the pitiless coldness of the world ; who, if having erred, 
must be soothed and led back to the ways of virtue. She was a 
mystery to these good, unworldly people ; and when at last she told 
them, in one of her irrepressible outbursts of grief, that she was no 
Magdalen, but the victim of bitter misfortunes which she could not 
explain, they believed and trusted her. Do not imagine that Nata- 
lie was given to heroics, or outbursts of dramatic passion ; these 
only came when nature could no longer bear suppression ; but when 
the storm of emotion passed, she was to the childish pair all that a 
gentle, loving daughter would have been, had Heaven so blessed them. 
Speaking such good English, and other languages as perfectly, they 
could not fix her nationality, and would not ask it, but enjoyed to 
the full all the efforts she made to repay their kindness, which made 
their hours at home the pleasantest of the whole day. She played 
in a masterly and expressive style ; her voice, a rich soprano, ex- 
celled not only in foreign opera music, but was never so sweet as 
when she sang the old ballads of England and Scotland for them ; she 
read to them and told them of countries they had never visited : 
Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Iceland, of which they never wea- 
ried, and to which they listened as if she had dropped from the 
moon, and was revealing to them the secrets of its weird mystery. 
But she would not wear colors ; she put aside the rich mV-blue silk, 
fine laces, and superb ribbons that Mrs. Bradford brought in and 
spread out with beaming countenance, one day, before her ; and 
while her lips paled and trembled, and the old look of woe came 
into her eyes, she said, “ You are too generous, too good, madame ! 
I wear mourning for something I lost, very, very dear to me.” And 
so they let her black robes alone. She seldom accompanied them 
in their drives ; two or three times they drove into the country to 
get cream and violets, and she went once, but never afterward ; al- 
ways excusing herself, not by giving a reason, but by simply saying, 
in low tones, and with imploring eyes : “If you please, I will stay 
here ; it hurts me, seeing so many faces.” 

There was one thing, however, and only one, that pained them 
about their protege , and that was, she never entered a church, or ex- 
pressed the least desire to do so. They thought, at first, that she was 
3 


TANGLED PA THS. 


SO 

a Protestant, and offered to send her in their carriage to the English 
chapel, but she quietly declined. 

u We thought, perhaps, you were a Protestant, Natalie.” 

“ No, madame,” she answered with a wistful, sorrowful look in 
her countenance. 

“ What is your religious belief, my child?” 

“ I have not words to tell you, madame ; perhaps I should speak 
more true, to say I have none ! none ! ” 

“ Hovv sad ! and so young. Natalie, what comforts you in your 
sorrows ? ” 

“ The thought of death, madame ; that is the end of all.” 

Mrs. Bradford looked at the young, beautiful girl, standing there 
so pale and stern, with grave pity and distress in her kind eyes ; it 
was the first time she had ever come in contact with a soul entirely 
separated from God, standing, as it were, outside His designs in its 
creation, alone in the universe, where all else obeyed the order of 
His laws. 

“ Then you have no hope beyond death ? ” 

“ Only of oblivion ; but pardon me, madame, I have pained you. 
Oh ! I would give the world to believe as you do ; it is not pride, 
oh, no ! I’d grovel in the dust, and suffer on, on, more and more 
for that gift ; but it is all dark, and frozen here, madame,” she said, 
clasping her hands above her heart. 

“ Natalie, how did this come to pass ? ” 

“ Do not ask me, madame — I can tell you nothing which will 
oblige me to speak of my past. I can only say that losing faith in 
humankind made me what I am. I needed pity, love, friendship, 
sympathy, and trust ; these were not for me on earth ; how then in 
the high heavens which I could not reach ? ” 

Natalie passed out of the room like a shadow, leaving Mrs. Brad- 
ford inexpressibly pained and grieved. What should she do or say ? 
Perhaps, by God’s providence, this soul, driven far from His mercy 
by cruel circumstances which had turned her life to vinegar and gall, 
had been led to them, as the first step toward its reclamation. But 
she would have to be prudent and careful, lest, like a wild bird 
rescued from a falcon, it should fly affrighted from her grasp, and 
fall a prey to the cruel enemy still hovering around, on the watch 


TANGLED PATHS. 


51 

for it. When she saw Natalie that evening, they being alone, she 
unclasped a delicate gold chain from her neck, to which was sus- 
pended a beautiful medal of the Immaculate Conception, set in 
pearls, and held it before her, saying : 

“ Will you wear this, my child ? ” 

“Ah, how beautiful !” she answered, examining it, as it lay glit- 
tering in her hand, and involuntarily reading the prayer to “ Mary, 
conceived without sin,” inscribed upon it. A sudden glow suffused 
her face, and she gave the medal back to Mrs. Bradford, saying : 
“It is too costly, madame, for one like me.” 

“Not if I give it, and ask you to wear it for my sake, Natalie ; 
and perhaps a day may come when your suffering human heart will 
cry out to hers for the help she never has been known to refuse 
those for whom her Son tasted death. Star of life’s stormy sea — as 
her name signifies — she is ever ready to guide the perishing into 
a port of safety,” said Mrs. Bradford, her voice trembling with 
emotion. 

“ I will wear it, madame, for your dear sake,” answered the girl, 
her statuesque features like marble, as she pressed the medal to her 
lips and clasped it around her slender throat. 

Next morning, Mrs. Bradford went -to attend late Mass at St. 
Roch, and offered her devotions for Natalie. At night, when they 
were alone, she talked the matter over with her husband, almost 
dreading the impression that a knowledge of Natalie’s infidelity 
would make on him. That he was shocked she could see; but he 
did not reply at once, and she would not interrupt him while he was 
thinking it over. 

“ She is more to be pitied than I thought. Cast off, now, with no 
hope in life or in death, it would not be long before she’d put an end 
to hers’elf under the waters of the Seine. Let 11s take no notice, but 
try to win the unfortunate child to God, by reviving her dead faith 
in humanity ; then, when her heart is softened and ready, He will 
finish the work. That is, if we can get her to stay on with us. 
Somehow, I have got strangely attached to her, and should miss 
her,” said Mr. Bradford. 

“ So should I; in fact, I don’t know how I should get along now, 
without her. She’s a study, too, and I can’t make her out,” replied 


52 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


his wife, scarcely conscious that the very fact she named added to 
her interest in the girl. 

“ She is so proud, and shrinks so from obligation, that she can not 
comprehend that she is giving to our lonely lives more than she re- 
ceives. I don’t know what we shall do, for I have a feeling that she 
may flit from us at any moment, like a wraith.” 

“ So have I, Joshua. It is a glad surprise to me every day when 
I come home and find her here. I wish I knew her history. I am 
sure that she has been more sinned against than sinning. So gifted 
too ! Do you know that she speaks five or six different languages, 
and is learned in the sciences ? I only found it out by accident, in 
our long talks, for she’s too modest to show off.” 

“ Well ! well ! It is a strange, bright bird that has dropped with 
broken wing into our lives. Let us take care of her so long as she 
is satisfied to remain ; but, wife, we must not constrain her by her 
sense of gratitude ; it would not be generous. Did you t see the 
person to-day who applied for the situation at Mrs. Waite’s? ” 

“ Indeed I did. She came, and if I hadn’t seen her petticoats I 
should have thought it was a man. Such a voice ! such a coarse 
face ! and, Joshua, she had a moustache ! ” 

u But what did she know ? ” ’• | 

“I don’t know. I brought Natalie in, and she questioned her 
for me in unknown tongues ; at first she was very glib, then she 
seemed to flounder, and at last flew into a passion, and I was afraid 
she’d beat her. Natalie told me in English that she would not do, 
and I dismissed her. ■'She would have frightened poor Louise’s 
children into fits. I’m sure I don’t know what we shall do about 
getting such a governess as she requires for her.” 

“ Such as she wants are all engaged, or do not exist : we have 
seen at least forty since she wrote, and there’s not one of the num- 
ber I would have ventured to send. Poor dear child ! I shall do 
my best, though.” 

Strange, that in their anxious desire to fulfill the request of their 
friend, and in all the sincere efforts they had daily made to do so, 
giving themselves no end of trouble, Mr. and Mrs: Bradford had not 
once thought of Natalie as being better qualified than any they had 
seen, or heard of, to assume the functions she required. But the 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


S3 


idea had not entered their minds, and I doubt if they would not 
have driven it out immediately as an impracticable thing at the first 
suggestion, so anxious and determined were they to keep Natalie 
themselves, if it were possible; until one night, that I shall tell 
you of. 

Mr. and Mrs. Bradford had been to hear Nilsson, in “ Faust,” and 
were hurrying up to their apartments, sure of the cup of hot coffee 
that Natalie would be sure, they knew, to have ready for them. 
But, as they entered the dimly-lit anteroom, a tall figure, in black 
wrappings, with white, scared face and wild eyes, came rushing to- 
ward them, trying to force her way out, as they paused for an in- 
stant in the doorway, wondering why there was not more light ; but 
Mr. Bradford put out his arm, barring her egress, and saw that it 
was Natalie. 

“ Natalie!” he said sternly, a is this the way you would leave 
us ? ” 

“ Do not hold me, let me go ! ” she gasped. 

“ Go ! why ? ” 

“ He has been here ! He has tracked me, hunted me down. It 
will kill me to see him again.” 

“ But where, my child ? Come, be reasonable ; where would 
you go ? ” 

“Anywhere ! Out of the world, to escape ! Oh, madame ! let 
me go ! ” she wildly pleaded. 

“ Who is this man, Natalie, and what right has he to follow you ?” 
asked Mr. Bradford, in grave, composed tones, now holding both 
her cold, trembling hands in his. 

“ Only the right given him by cruel, unjust laws ; that is all I can 
tell you. Let me be gone, out of your sight, oh my friends, to whom 
I bring nothing but trouble, trouble for all your kindness ; kindness 
that might have led me to peace — but for him, my enemy 1 ” she 
exclaimed, grinding her white, even teeth together with a savage 
clash. 

“ My child ! ” said Mrs. Bradford, throwing her arms around her, 
and drawing her with a gentle force into the reception-room, which 
was all aglow with early summer flowers and the light of shaded 
lamps — a mocking contrast to the pallid human agony, and the sor- 


54 


TANGLED PA THS. 


rowful, frightened eyes of the girl’s countenance, as she stood — she 
would not sit down — amidst the light and fragrance. “ My child, 
can you not open your heart to us, and tell us your history ? ” 

“ No ! forgive me ; no. Let me go out of your life, as though 
I had never been. I will, I must go !” she cried, struggling. 

“Be still, Natalie,” said Mr. Bradford firmly, as a sudden idea 
illumined the difficulty. “ You shall go, but not like this, alone, and 
out into the night with its perils, seen and unseen, rushing into evils 
perhaps worse than those you fly from.” 

“ I may go, then ? ” she said dropping her arms and fixing her 
eyes steadily on his ; “ you say it ? ” 

“ Yes, on my honor ; we will not keep you. Where do you wish 
to go?” he answered. 

“Anywhere ! To the farthest ends of the earth, if I may.” 

“ Very well, let us take a cup of hot coffee, and I will tell you 
my plan. Make it quickly, wife ; we don’t want the servants in.” 

“ I trust you, sir. You and madame are the best, the only true 
friends I ever had ; and now — why could I not rest?” she cried, 
tears streaming for the first time over her pallid cheeks. The wild 
excitement was ebbing away, and she dropped, trembling and un- 
nerved, into a chaise-lounge beside her. A cup of coffee revived 
her a little ; Mrs. Bradford unfastened her hat and wrappings, drew 
her head to her motherly breast, and smoothed her throbbing tem- 
ples, as she stood by her, until they pulsed more evenly, and her 
breath no longer surged up from her wounded heart in wild gasps. 
Then Mr. Bradford proposed her acceptance of the situation of gov- 
erness for Mrs. Waite’s children, if she had no objection to leaving 
Europe, or to the distance. 

“ Objection ! Only too thankful to go ! to put the wide seas 
between me and my enemy.” 

“You have heard us talking over this affair, Natalie, and know 
the difficulty that we find in getting such a governess as our friend 
wants. She has a lame boy to educate,* and she desires almost a 
collegiate course for him ; are you equ^l to that, Natalie?” 

“ I can say yes, and not boast. I was educated by men, like a 
man. I was not dull, and did not lose what I learned. Oh, yes ! I 
was trained as if for a Professor ! ” she said, bitterly. 


TANGLED PATHS. 


55 


“ And there is a little girl who will be under your care ; you have 
heard us talk it over, though, and know that her education is to be of 
a more feminine sort than her brother’s ; not so much learning, but 
such accomplishments, and all that, as she has talent for,”, said Mr. 
Bradford, spreading out his hands, and beginning to flounder a 
little, and no wonder, for he had been going over and over the 
same thing to all sorts of strange women for three months past, 
until his mind, like the old woman’s who went to sleep on her way 
from market, did not know whether it was herself or another when 
she awoke. 

“ I do not fear to fail — ” 

“ But, Natalie, our friends are Catholics, like ourselves, and I 
can not send you to them unless you promise me on your sacred 
word and honor, in the most binding way, never by word, or deed, 
or manner, to cast doubt on the religious faith of these children ; 
nay, even to teach it to them, if required,” continued Mr. Bradford. 

“No more, Monsieur Bradford. I would die before I would 
harm the innocent faith of any person, much less that of children ; 
how could I, made miserable as I am by hard, iron teachings ? No ; 
I will teach them their religious lessons from the books, if it is re- 
quired of me. It is nothing to me ; but you may trust me when I 
say I would die, yes, die , before I would hurt the innocence and 
faith of a child. When may I go ? It must be soon, if you would 
save me ! ” 

“ In a few hours, Natalie,” said Mr. Bradford, looking at his 
watch. “It is just one o’clock ; at 4.20 the Havre train goes out. 
You will go by that ; and my wife and I will go with you to see you 
safely on board the steamer, which we shall reach just in time. Do 
not give yourself any trouble, child, about money ; I have more 
than I know what to do with. I will write to Mrs. Waite, and order 
a cab, while you are getting your things together,” said Mr. Brad- 
ford, with a sharp regret at her going from them ; but never a doubt 
in his honest heart that he was not doing the kindest thing in the 
world for Mrs. Waite in sending her a governess so, every way, ac- 
complished. 

“ Thanks ! thanks ! but I can never, never thank you ! ” said 
Natalie, in a choked voice, as she suddenly knelt at his feet, clasped 


56 


TANGLED TATI1S. 


his hand, held it for an instant to her lips, then laid her cold, 
white cheek upon it, before he could prevent her or speak ; and in 
another instant she was gone. 

Mrs. Bradford had already slipped out of the room — the good 
lady having a dread of scenes, her nature being of that sympathetic 
sort which was always too ready to respond to whatever touched 
her emotions — to busy herself in gathering Natalie’s things to- 
gether in readiness for her sudden journey. Sprinkling the garments 
with her tears as she folded them, and full of the sense of loss of the 
ha-ppy possibilities that she had been indulging in ever since Natalie 
had come so strangely into her life, she did not observe that she was 
in the room, and was standing, as if benumbed and frozen, watching 
her every motion. It was the bitterest moment of all, this mortal 
ache in her heart at the loss of friends who had sheltered and cared 
for her in her needs, first through pity, and who afterward loved 
and trusted her for herself; and it recoiled back on her old wrongs, 
whatever they were, like a huge hammer that shaped her hatred, like 
iron that fierce fires have melted, into a form of adamant. 

Turning presently, Mrs. Bradford saw the girl; i«*was all over, 
and she flung her arms around her, folding her close to her motherly 
breast, and sobbing : “ Why could they not leave you in peace ? 
Lie down, my darling ; I will get everything ready ; lie down and 
try to rest, after all this.” 

Natalie could not speak ; she felt as if, of her own will, she should 
never be able to do anything again, but only be driven by that which 
her darkened soul called Fate, to the bitter end. She yielded pass- 
ively to the warm pressure of the loving arms that enfolded her, and 
suffered herself to be led to her couch, where she dropped nerveless 
— like one blind, who falls in the desert, into which he has wandered 
or been hunted. 

Mrs. Bradford’s heart was too full for words; she threw *a light 
eider-down quilt over Natalie’s recumbent form, adjusted the pillows 
more comfortably under her head, then went on with her labor of love. 
She had, from time to time, as Natalie would accept them, filled 
her trunk with a supply of under-clothing, and a change of black 
dresses, wraps, and other necessaries, for she had always steadily 
refused superfluities of dress, or ornaments of the toilette ; and, 


T A NGLI.D PATHS. 


57 


now, she slipped into a corner of the tray a well-filled purse, and in- 
terspersed among her clothes many beautiful remembrances from 
her own richly-stored wardrobe. She thought of everything, and it 
gave her comfort to know that when Natalie opened her trunk in the 
far-off home she was going to, that she would be reminded, by these 
little surprises, of her care and affection. 

In two days from that sad night, after tender and almost speech- 
less farewells, Natalie was watching the receding shores of the French 
coast from the deck of Le Pereire , whose prow was turned toward 
the Western world ; she was flying from some cruel wrong, to find 
new scenes, a new home, and, if it might be that it would come to 
one like her — peace. 

The same steamer carried out letters from the Bradfords to Mrs. 
Waite, in addition to the letter of introduction they had furnished 
Natalie with. 

But it was not until she was gone past recall, and these two good 
Samaritans were back in their own lovely apartments at Le Grande 
Hotel in Paris, vwhich the absence of Natalie now made appear des- 
olate to them— and had talked and thought calmly over all that had 
happened — that a single misgiving ever entered their minds as to 
whether they had acted altogether in good faith toward Mrs. Waite 
in sending her as guide and instructress for her children a stranger 
whom they simply trusted, but of whose antecedents they were in 
perfect ignorance^ and who, by her own confession, was an infidel ! 
As for themselves, they would have trusted her to the end, and 
hoped to the last to bring her erring soul to the Truth, whatever her 
life may have been ; but there was no doubt but that they had 
shouldered a most serious and delicate responsibility by their impul- 
sive desire to serve others, and it did not lighten their regret to know 
that it was now too late to recall what they had done. Even in his 
long letter to Mrs. Waite, Mr. Bradford had been just a little ma- 
chiavellian, for while he had told the truth concerning the lady who 
would present his letter of introduction, it was the truth in outline 
only, and not in detail. He had stated that “ she was for some months 
an inmate of his family ; that she had experienced great misfortunes, 
which had thrown her upon her own resources ; that she was learn- 
ed, accomplished, refined in manner, and in every way qualified for 
3 * 


58 


TANGLED PA THS. 


success as a teacher ; that although she was not a Catholic, or in fact 
attached to any creed, he felt, knowing that Mrs. Waite’s children 
were strictly under her own religious training and influences, that 
this would not be a formidable objection, as he was firmly convinced 
that she would never seek in the least way to tamper with their be- 
lief ; and commended Natalie — the only name by which they k?iew her 
— to her kindest care and consideration ; hoping that in sending her 
he had done what was for the best, and that she would more than satis- 
fy her requirements ; ” then added : “ But for her own earnest desire 
to leave Europe, they had proposed adopting, her as a member of 
their own family, having been completely won by the loveliness of her 
character, the brilliance of her talents and her intelligence, in all of 
w T hich she was entirely unobtrusive and modest ; that they parted 
from her with the deepest regret, consoling themselves that the next 
best thing to having her themselves, was to know that she was with 
friends dear to them both.” It did not at all occur to Mr. Bradford’s 
unworldly mind, although, as a business man, it would seem to have 
been the most natural thing in the world if it had, that the very fact 
of his proteges being ashamed or unwilling to declare her name, was 
a suspicious circumstance and might frustrate his kind intentions. 
There are some few people in the world constitutionally incapable 
of a well-arranged fraud, or a sudden lie ; for if they set out with such 
intentions — which I by no means wish you to believe that good Mr. 
Bradford did — they are sure to betray the truth, whether, as Balaam 
did by the inspiration of an angel, or from some idiosyncrasy, I can 
not say. 

But Mr. Bradford, in the excitement and hurry of the occasion, 
had forgotten, before he mailed his letter at Havre, to write Mrs. 
Waite’s address on the envelope, by which mistake she did not get 
it until three months after Natalie’s arrival, it having gone to the 
Dead-Letter Office at Washington, where it was finally rescued by a 
friend of her husband’s, who had been a clerk there many years. 
In that time, Mrs. Waite, kind, but keenly observant, had first, by 
winning Natalie’s confidence in her own delicate and gentle way, and 
by her friendly manner toward her, learned the same facts — but those 
only — that Mr. Bradford stated. Later, one evening when Mrs. 
Waite and herself, being alone in the drawing-room, were talking 


TANGLED FA THS. 


59 


over the letter, so long astray, and Natalie’s heart was yearning, with 
inexpressible affection, toward her friends over the sea, she, moved 
by tender remembrances, related to Mrs. Waite the circumstances 
of their first meeting and all that had followed; she told her also 
that she was a Russian by birth ; that for reasons she could not ex- 
plain, she concealed her name, and the bitter misfortunes that had 
driven her out into the world ; that she had a vindictive enemy, who 
had tracked her to Paris, and having found her out, she dared not 
stay ; in fact, that she was rushing out of the house to throw herself 
into the Seine when Mr. and Mrs. Bradford came in, just in time to 
save her from the mad act. But although the past, beyond that, 
was still a mystery, her daily life developed so much to recommend 
her not only to Mrs. Waite’s affection and respect, and to her woman- 
ly sympathies — that, like the Bradfords, she learned to trust her 
unconditionally, and had but one regret, which was that Natalie was 
outside that Fold wherein is peace, rest, and solace for the over- 
tried soul. 

“ Do not let the children know, Natalie,” said Mrs. Waite, gently. 
“ There’s no need ; and they love you so, it might harm them to 
learn that you are — oh, unfortunate child ! — an unbeliever.” 

“ They shall never know it, madame ; have no fears. While I 
admire a grand system that elevates many souls, I yet can not believe / 
all faith in me is dead ; but I can demonstrate by its rules, to your lit- 
tle ones, that faith and virtue are beyond all price. They are too 
young yet to judge me by my own words ; when they are — I may 
be gone,” said the girl, with a slight shudder. 


CHAPTER IV. 


There were signs that the winter would be an unusually gay one, 
even for so gay a capital as Washington, where the so-called social 
duties form a code whose regulations are systematically observed, 
and whose requirements are so despotic that to omit them in the 
least is to drop one’s self into utter seclusion ; for here, during the 
season, the votaries of fashion have no time to step out of the whirl 
of society even to look upon the faces of old friends who may be, 
from whatever cause, withdrawn from it. Not only worldlings, whose 
natural element it is, but even some of those who are regular in all 
Christian duties, occasionally find themselves drawn by circumstances 
into the vortex of the “ pomps and vanities,” and daily participants 
in scenes of amusement and frivolity which distract and undermine 
their devotion, and require the bitter tonic of a rigid Lent to restore 
them to spiritual health. But to these the world teaches a salutary 
lesson as they scan its transitory delights from the grave outlook of 
the soul, — a lesson that drives them, as by a reflex current, nearer 
to God ; for they see and know, by comparison, how much easier is 
the yoke, and lighter the burden of Plis service who mingles every 
bitter cup with the sweetness of hope, and is ever ready to heal the 
fainting heart when the earth-staff on which it leaned too securely 
breaks and pierces it. They mark the incessant, life-wearing fatigues 
endured by fashionable people, in the performance of what they love 
to call their social duties, and the pursuit of enjoyment, and wonder 
how a mortal physique can bear the wear and tear of it all ! to say 
nothing of the rivalries, the incessant sameness of routine, the jealous- 
ies, the tortures of vanity, the vexation of spirit, the waste of time, 
the misapplied energies, and bitter experiences which are the inev- 
itable conditions of the path they have chosen ; and which, except 
by a miracle, make shipwreck of all that is best in their nature. And 
while contemplating the nothingness of it all, they realize that the 
(60) 


TANGLED PA THS. 


6 1 


“ prince of this world’’ exacts sacrifice from his votaries; that he 
spares them nothing of his tyrannical decrees, but demands payment 
to the uttermost farthing ; that he has even his martyrs ; that his 
sophistries beguile and bewilder the soul ; that the evanescent 
splendors of his kingdom dazzle but to betray ; that the rosy gar- 
lands by which he leads them turn to corroding fetters that bind 
them to an inexorable servitude, from which they are ever intending 
to break away at “ a more convenient season ” — which never comes ; 
until, at last, they find the night drawing on, darkness before them, 
and beyond that a dies irce , from which there is no escape. 

Thus reading the world’s riddle by the light of religion, as by a 
lamp, many fly to the refuge of the cloister ; others doff the livery 
of the world, or, if their circumstances entirely forbid that, wear it 
as a loose garment, and do their good works in secret ; while there 
are yet others, “ in it, yet not of it,” who show by a pure and con- 
sistent example how holy and beautiful religion is, and so, confess- 
ing the faith by their daily walk, win souls. For, as strange as it 
may seem, it is nevertheless true that while worldlings render sincere 
homage to the Christian virtues, they are scandalized by inconsisten- 
cies in the Christian character, which, like keen-sighted hawks, they 
see from afar. And who knows but that they, so seemingly unob- 
servant in the wild career of their pleasures, of all else, ma}' not form 
part of the cloud of witnesses against us when the great Dies Iroe 
comes ? 

Mrs. Weston — the wife, you know, of the rich banker — being, 
from her wealth and position, and her inclination also, one of the 
foremost leaders in society, pacified her conscience for the spiritual 
delinquencies consequent upon her devotion to the world, by send- 
ing donations to this, that, and the other charitable institution, of 
which she was directress or one of the board of managers, and dele- 
gating to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Waite, the management of her more 
private charities ; then, considering her duties well, though vicariously, 
fulfilled, felt entirely free to buckle on her worldly harness until Lent 
— for Lent has become a fashionable institution — and devote herself 
exclusively to her social duties. 

“ You know, Louisa,” she said one day on seeing that Mrs. Waite 
showed some unwillingness to be her almoner, “1 am absolutely 


62 


TANGLED PATHS. 


obliged by my husband’s position to mingle a great deal in the 
world; I get heartily sick of it — but what’s to be done? If I don’t 
go about, and entertain, people would begin to whisper that Wes- 
ton’s Bank was getting shaky; and then, you know, I have to con- 
sider Sybil — who, I suppose, will come home soon — ” 

“ Who ? ” interrupted Mrs. Waite, with a slight start. 

“ Mr. Weston wishes her called so ; you know she was christened 
Cecilia Sybil, but for some reason or other he prefers that she should 
be called Sybil. Men get odd fancies sometimes; but don’t you 
think that ‘ Sybil’ is very unique and poetic? ” 

“It matters very little, after all; we love it, my brother and I, 
because it was our mother’s name,” replied Mrs. Waite, who under- 
stood the reason for this change, knowing how Mr. Weston shrunk 
from the ghost of happier memories that the dear and unforgotten 
name of Cecilia would evoke if it entered into the hearing of his daily 
life. But this was a thing that a nature like Mrs. Weston’s could 
never have comprehended ; so Mrs. Waite simply asked : “ Is she 
coming home soon ? ” 

“ I think — at least I hope so ; and if she does, she will, of course, 
have to be introduced into society, and I’m afraid it will be up-hill 
work, she has been kept so long with those dear good nuns praying, 
and fasting, and all the rest of it. So, you see, I must absolutely 
keep up my visiting, for I should not like to have to form a new 
circle, and introduce my stepdaughter only to strangers. You know 
exactly how it is here ; if I were to seclude myself for only six weeks 
I should be as much forgotten as if I were dead and buried. I have 
Edyth to think of, too ; oh, dear me, it is very tiresome ! But do 
now, there’s a good soul, take care of all these pious affairs for me, 
and let Clara and Edyth be together as much as possible. Clara’s 
a dear, sweet child, and I always feel safe when she and Edyth are 
together.” 

Mrs. Weston was always voluble, and Mrs. Waite rarely attempted 
to argue with her unless some very serious principle was in question, 
which she deemed it her duty to define as affecting her own senti- 
ments, when she took care to make herself very clearly understood. 
She would have preferred Mrs. Weston’s attending to her own 
charities ; but, seeing how the case stood, she feared that the desti- 


TANGLED PA TPS. 


63 

tute on her list would suffer if not looked after, and yielded to her 
wishes, hoping in her heart that the lavish alms, whether given through 
ostentation, habit, or from whatever cause, might, by the relief they 
brought to the want-stricken and suffering, bring to her after many 
days, like bread cast upon the waters, some grace wherewith to feed 
her hungry soul and give it new life. Mrs. Waite hoped so for this 
worldly, thoughtless woman, knowing that God’s promises never fail ; 
and Mrs. Weston, glad that the affair was settled, called her a “ dear 
little woman,” kissed her, said “ Ta-ta,” and rustled into her carriage, 
gave orders to the coachman to make the horses go- as fast as they 
could to her French dressmaker’s, snapped the door to, and rolled 
away. 

But Mr. Weston was getting restive. His only concession to so- 
ciety was to give and attend stately, heavy dinners occasionally, and 
he found it very irksome in the intervals to spend his evenings en- 
tirely alone, or have his house crammed with fashionable people, 
most of whom were strangers to him, who came to attend his wife’s 
evening and morning receptions, her opera suppers, soirees-dansante , 
and private theatricals. He wanted a more quiet home-life, and a 
companionship akin to that he had once known. “ But how vain 
such aspirations when the natures that make or mar the happiness of 
those with whom they are associated differ so widely ! ” was the 
thought that forced itself into the banker’s mind ; — which, so far 
from comforting him, increased his discontent by its ^practicable 
reality. 

There was nothing that Mrs. Weston shrunk from with greater 
abhorrence than a humdrum evening alone, with only her husband 
to talk to and yawn at, for his conversation ran entirely on the rise 
and fall in stocks, speculations, railroad enterprises, the expansion 
and shrinkage of values, and money affairs generally — topics inex- 
pressibly dull to her, her only interest in money being to have at 
command as much as she could spend. But, lately, Mr. Weston 
had lessened her usual liberal supplies, and had once remonstrated 
with her, in grave tones, on her extravagant and reckless expendi- 
tures, reproached her with neglect of sacred home duties, and 
threatened to break up his elegant establishment and go to live at 
“ Westover,” his country-seat, some ten miles from the city, unless 


6 4 


TANGLED PA THS. 


there was a change for the better. Mrs. Weston could see no rea- 
son, and her husband gave none, for this sudden interference and 
evident desire to check her enjoyments ; and, having a high spirit 
of her own, she confronted him with anger and defiance, which ex- 
asperated the usually self-contained man to words which had been 
better left unsaid. There was ill-feeling and coldness between them 
for several days, which was particularly uncomfortable to Mrs. Wes- 
ton, whose supplies were running very low, and she had entered in- 
to engagements which would shortly make a demand upon her hus- 
band, for money, indispensable. But she was too proud to break 
the ice, although she was constantly thinking how she might do so 
without seeming to intend it, and in a way that would not in the 
least humiliate her ; but her invention was at fault — she had not the 
least dramatic talent for scenes, and a square, straightforward course 
was beyond her comprehension. And then, when she least ex- 
pected it, and had made up her mind to let things take their own 
course, a letter came to her from her step-daughter, asking her to 
procure and send her a supply of different-colored silks, worsteds, 
and what not, for a famous piece of embroidery she wanted to be- 
gin immediately — a sweet, affectionate, dutiful letter, which, if it 
did not touch Mrs. Weston’s heart, inspired her with an idea that 
promised to solve all the difficulties of the situation. She would 
have Sybil home. Sybil’s affairs being a subject of mutual interest, 
Mrs. Weston felt that she could make the first approaches toward 
securing her object without in the least compromising her dignity. 

The very next evening, at dinner, after the dessert was brought 
on, and the servants had left the room, one of them charged with a 
message to the nursery, that “ Edyth was to go to her Aunt Waite’s, 
with Barbara, to spend an hour or two with her cousin, and that 
nurse must see that she wore her thick shoes, and was well wrapped 
up,” she braced herself up for her task. 

That the exhibition of any tender, maternal traits in his wife 
should give Mr. Weston pleasure proved the rarity of them, and 
this little circumstance lit up his face with gratification ; for, after 
what had passed, he thought she was at last awakening to a sense 
of her duties, and that there was happiness yet in store for him ; 
the scowl that had for days clouded his brow cleared off, and select- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


65 


ing a large and delicious cluster of Hamburg grapes, he leaned over 
and laid them upon her plate, with some pleasant remark about 
their size and fragrance. 

“ Thanks ! they are lovely ! Do they come from the 1 Westover * 
grapery ? They are like the fruit one sees in pictures. And so 
delicious ! ” was the gracious reply. 

Again she pleased him, for “Westover” and the graperies there 
were quite hobbies of his. Then he told her about the magnificent 
fruit produced by his dwarf pear-trees, as large and golden as the 
apples of the Hesperides, and that he had ordered some to be 
brought in, thinking to surprise her. 

“There’s nothing I dote on half so much as pears! How very 
kind of you to think of me, full of business cares as you are ! What 
a blessing glass is to the lovers of good fruits ! ” 

Then they fell into a pleasant chat about some Australian plants 
Mr. Weston had imported a year previous, and several rare cacti 
which would bloom within four or five weeks — cacti of the night- 
blooming species, which open their superb flowers but once in 
seven years. Mrs. Weston was enchanted to hear of them, being 
determined in her own mind to find out exactly when they might 
be expected to open, that she might have them in among the floral 
decorations of a ball she intended giving, if she could so manage, 
for she knew that they would be the greatest novelties of the season, 
and she envied by all her acquaintance in their possession. At 
length the opportunity she was waiting for presented itself; for, 
after a little pause in the conversation, Mr. Weston remarked : 

“ I hope that Ce , I mean — I hope that Sybil is fond of 

flowers.” 

“ I am sure she is; but don’t you think, dear, that it is time for 
Sybil to come home ? She is a woman grown now, and a very 
beautiful one, they say, and unless you intend her for the cloister — ” 

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Weston, setting down with a sudden 
quickness the decanter of port wine that he had at that instant taken 
up to replenish his glass. “ I’d rather she’d die than be a nun. 
Have you heard from my daughter lately ? Has anything been said 
like that ? ” 

“No ; I have heard nothing; but you know that Sybil’s way of 


66 


TANGLED PA THS. 


life there has become a second nature ; she’s been there ever since 
she was three or four years old, I understand ; and as she has never 
expressed a wish to come home to live, and you none to have her 
come, I very naturally inferred that, with your consent, she would 
some day take the veil,” observed Mrs. Weston, with an air of un- 
concern as natural as if every word she said was true. 

“Well,” said Mr. Weston, after a few moments’ thoughtful silence, 
“ I am not surprised at your having such nonsensical thoughts. 
The fact is, I am so overwhelmed with business matters that I lost 
sight of the fact that Sybil must be grown up by this time ; for al- 
though I have seen her at intervals, I have never accustomed my- 
self to think of her except as a little child. I suppose I was waiting 
to be reminded by her aunt, or you, or herself, that it was time for 
her to come home and take her place in the world as my eldest 
daughter.” 

Mr. Weston spoke in slow, measured tones, as if unraveling 
thoughts quite new to him. 

“Oh, as for myself, Mr. Weston, I laid it down as one of the 
rules of my life when we were married never to meddle in Sybil’s 
affairs ; a step-mother, you know, is never safe to do as she may, 
even when, she is right; and I should not have spoken now, but 
that I have been asked a great many questions lately, by your old 
friends, whom I meet now and then, about Sybil ; and I really 
wished to know how 1 should answer them, for it placed me, being 
your wife, in a very embarrassing position.” 

“Very naturally. I am glad that you mentioned the subject. I 
will send for Sybil. I will write this evening for her to be sent 
home immediately.” 

“ They will send one of their lay-sisters with her if you request it, 
dear, and pay her expenses. I don’t think it will be proper for 
Sybil to travel alone such a distance, and part of the way by stage- 
coach.” 

“ Certainly, certainly ; thank you for the suggestion, my dear.” 

“ Oh, I am so very glad she is coming home ! It will make 
everything bright and pleasant ; one won’t care so much then about 
going out. It will be delightful. Must I see about furnishing the 
room that you named for her when you built the house ? ” 


TANGLED PA THS. Qy 

u I had forgotten that,” said Mr. Weston, warming into pleasant 
anticipations as his wife spoke. “ Has it never been furnished ? ” 

“ No indeed. I did not urge it, because I thought it would be 
better to wait until Sybil came home, that everything might be new 
and fresh.” 

“ Kindly thought of. Get whatever you please. I suppose I 
can afford to waste a little money on the occasion of my eldest 
daughter’s return. I am really very much obliged to you, Anne, 
for reminding me that Sybil is no longer a child,” said the banker, 
experiencing as much happiness at the thought of having her home 
as it was in his nature, crusted over as it was by love of gain, to feel. 

“ Dear child ! I am thankful that there is no impediment to my 
devoting myself entirely to her enjoyment ; for Edyth will be in the 
nursery for some time to come,” said Mrs. Weston, delighted with 
success, and now plunging into deeper soundings, for she had not 
yet come to the gist of the matter, and did not know — thinking of 
their recent unpleasantness — what conditions or restrictions her 
husband might see fit to impose when his daughter came home. 

“Yes! yes! I understand!” he answered, with a grim smile; 
“ I am glad that it is so ; there’ll be no rivalries to make it uncom- 
fortable between them. My daughter must of course make her 
debut in your world ; I imagine that it will be proper for her to do 
so ; and I give you carte-blanche for whatever expenditure may be 
necessary ; but be prudent, Anne, for people say that a war with 
the South is inevitable ; stocks of all description are continually 
fluctuating ; in fact, the signs of the times threaten a great financial 
panic, which may be upon us before we know where we are.” 

“ I wouldn’t think so much about panics and things, if I were 
you ; I don’t think it can be good for your digestion, dear, and you 
know that when the acids and bile are all stirred up, one always 
has a burden of despondency by day, and visions by night, quite 
enough to turn one’s blood to gall,” said Mrs. Weston, laughing. 

“ I am never troubled with indigestion — for which I can not be 
too thankful ; but we have to watch the signs of the financial atmos- 
phere, and if they threaten a storm we must prepare for it in time, 
or go down when it comes,” he said, while a gray look of care came 
into his countenance. 


68 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Let us hope for the best; ‘Weston, Banker,’ is not built on 
sandy foundations, and that’s all I know about it. Now let us go 
back to Sybil, dear. On second thought, it will be better, I imagine, 
to delay her return until everything is in readiness for her. I wish 
her to find everything so lovely and attractive here that she won’t 
get homesick about the convent.” 

“ When shall I say ? ” 

“ In about a fortnight from to-day. Let me see ; that will bring 
it about the 25th,” said Mrs. Weston, counting her fingers rapidly; 
“ by that time all my arrangements will be completed. How will 
you spend the evening, dear ? Shall I read the papers to you, or 
sing, or what ? ” 

“What! not going out ? ” said the banker, with a flush of sur- 
prise and pleasure in his face. “ Really I am at a loss what to ask 
for, but think I shall be satisfied to sit and look at you, it is so 
rarely that I have that gratification.” 

“ Don’t be sarcastic; it spoils the compliment.” 

“ I did not intend to be so. I am content to have a quiet home 
evening with you, Anne ; and when you are tired of my dullness 
perhaps you won’t object to whist.” 

Mrs. Weston hated whist, but she only said : 

“ With pleasure, whenever you are ready.” She opened the card- 
table and set everything in readiness for her husband’s favorite amuse- 
ment ; construing the situation by degrees of comparison as she did 
so : Home dull ; an evening alone with Mr. Weston, more dull ; 
whist, the stupidest and most dull of all ; but she could endure it 
this once, when there was so much excitement and pleasure in store 
for her in the future. 

The servants came in to clear the dinner-things away — well- 
trained, orderly servants, who performed their duties by systematic 
rules, entering and going noiselessly — leaving nothing out of place, 
touching the great lumps of sea-coal in the polished grate just at 
the right moment to make them crumble and blaze, spreading the 
damp evening papers on the wire rack near the fire, to dry, and 
placing two lighted wax candles on Mr. Weston’s reading-stand, the 
last thing, knowing that he preferred them to the tremulous flicker 
of the gas to read by. 


TANGLED PA THS '. 


69 


He glanced at the stock-exchange reports first, then over the 
stormy Congressional proceedings, in which he saw not the least 
sign of mutual concession ; both were unsatisfactory in the extreme ; 
but he felt that it would be ungracious to his handsome wife, who 
had voluntarily relinquished some agreeable engagement to make 
his evening pass pleasantly, to sit there glowering and boding over 
events that might yet by some happy chance be averted ; then he 
allowed himself to be entertained, or seem to be. But it was a 
great drag to Mrs. Weston ; the subjects that interested each of 
them being so entirely antithetical that anything like sympathetic 
rapport was simply impossible. Then whist— no talking now to her 
great relief — so she played badly, as a substitute, knowing how 
much enjoyment her husband had in winning the game ; planning 
the while the upholstering of Sybil’s room, and the course of the 
season’s campaign, which relieved her mind of half the tedium of 
the evening’s infinite dullness. 

Mrs. Weston paid a flying visit to Mrs. Waite the next day, to 
impart the intelligence that Sybil was certainly coming home in two 
weeks to remain ; that great preparations were to be made for her 
debut, and the house was to be extremely gay ; so that she must not 
take it ill if she did not see her for some time, knowing how much 
she had on her hands. 

“ God forbid ! ” thought Mrs. Waite, as her fashionable relative 
drove from her door, “ that Cecilia’s child should be made a world- 
ling of ! I would ratfier-s§he had died in her sinless infancy. But 
why should I be in dread, when with her dying lips her mother con- 
fided her to the protection of Our Blessed Lady ; and is now doubt- 
less in those abodes of peace, where her prayers will be efficacious 
for the preservation of her child’s innocence. But, oh ! the trial of 
such temptations to one so young and inexperienced ! ” Mrs. Waite 
sighed, but she could not avert anything of the dangers that were 
thickly sown in the way of Sybil’s future ; she could only offer 
prayers for her security, and, trusting in the promises of God, hope 
for. the best. 


CHAPTER V. 

Studies are over for the day ; school-books, maps, and slates 
are huddled out of sight into the closet, which John facetiously calls 
the “ brain factory,” where there is not much to commend in the 
order of arrangement, the only thing strictly insisted upon being that 
each one’s property should be placed on the shelf assigned to his or 
her use. Everything safely stowed away, the dog-eared Latin lexicon, 
that had, somehow, got under the table, is spied and ignominiously 
pitched in, the door is banged to with a vim, and the key turned 
by Baste, who is self-appointed janitor of this domain, and gives 
vent to his satisfaction by a merry “ Hurrah ! ” prancing around the 
room, snapping his fingers with delight. No wonder the young folk 
are in such a state of exhilaration, for the morrow is a holiday — the 
day after that, Sunday — then to crown their happiness, it has been 
snowing the livelong day, and one of their comrades had bounced 
in at noon with the tidings that the river was freezing. 

Great snowflakes are softly pelting the school-room windows, pil- 
ing Alps on the window-sills that threaten to curtain them in ; the 
air is filled with a noiseless, dancing whiteness, and the outlook 
would be dreary even there, but for the blazing, ruddy fire of wood 
and sea-coal that is piled up in the wide Latrobe grate, diffusing a 
warm glow over the walls, and brightening to still greater merri- 
ment of expression the faces of the children. Baste and Con are 
looking after the condition of the straps of their skates and the run- 
ners of their “ clippers,” which they have hauled out from the 
receptacle where, by law established, such things are kept when not 
in use. Clara is promised a coasting frolic if she’ll just help to sew 
on some buckles that are hanging loose ; and John — well, John 
knows well enough that he will hear all about their fun, and enjoy 
it without the discomfort of being half frozen ; happily for him, his 
(7o) 


TANGLED PA THS. 


71 


delicate and sensitive organization makes him shrink from things 
that other boys hardened by rough outdoor sports take pleasure 
in,, which contributed no little toward making him content as he is — 
and he sits there by them in his wheeled chair, his elbows on his 
knees, his chin resting on his hands, now chaffing Con and Baste, 
now throwing in a word of advice, or finding fault with their awk- 
wardness — as those who are mere lookers-on are invariably tempted 
to do. But John, although privileged to say what he pleases, is 
never ill-natured, so his chaff is like striking flint : sparkles of fun 
fly out, and bursts of laughter tell how much they enjoy seeing 
each other hit. 

Natalie is there too. Seeing that the children are happy and 
occupied, she rises to go to her own room ; but, obeying some sud- 
den impulse, she stops at the nearest window, and looks out. 
Twilight has crept on ; it is nearly dark, and, as she stands there 
watching the snow beating like maimed white birds against the win- 
dow-panes, a subtle power within her links the scene with her past, 
until her mind, filled with unbidden memories, is lost to present 
realities. The firelight throws red gleams upon the window-panes, 
that by a quaint illusion look like eyes of flame winking through 
the white drifts outside that the wind whirls past, and the vivid light 
projects her shadow upon them like a troubled ghost. Natalie sees 
it all as in a dream, blending with the phantoms of her frozen life. 
How long she would have remained there in her motionless trance, 
if a sudden clamor among the children, and her own name shouted 
amidst the uproar, had not recalled her to herself, I can not tell. 

“ She’s coming ! she’s coming to-night, Natalie ! I say, Natalie, 
Sybil is coming this very night ! ” said Baste seizing her hand, that 
hung cold and listless by her side. Natalie, suddenly awoke from 
her dream, turned a face so white and startled to the boy, that he 
shrunk back, saying : “ I beg your pardon, Natalie — did I hurt 
you ? ” 

“ No, my boy,” she answered, smoothing his cheek. “ I stopped 
to look what the snow was doing ; then I got to thinking of times 
when the snow made me very happy always, until I forgot myself 
for a little while. But what is it ? ” she asked ; and, looking round, 
and seeing Edyth Weston there, she held out her handsome, shapely 


72 


TANGLED PA T//S. 


hand. Edyth was not slow in flying to her — for there was a singular 
affinity between the two natures ; she pressed her close against her 
breast, and laid her cheek for a moment on her head — a curious 
way she had of showing tenderness toward an object she loved, in- 
stead of by a kiss. “ Now ! who is coming?” 

“ Sybil ; Edyth’ s sister, you know. She’s a grown-up young 
lady ! ” explained John. 

“ And Uncle Weston’s gone to the depot in the carriage for her,” 
added Baste. 

“And, Natalie, Aunt Weston sent Edyth over in the sleigh to 
fetch mamma,” said Clara. 

“ But mamma would rather go to-morrow — after they all get 
acquainted with Sybil ; for you must know, Natalie, that she has 
never lived at home,” put in Con. 

“ And,- oh, Natalie ! I am so glad that I am going to have a 
sister all to myself,” said Edyth. 

Thus Natalie had the whole story completed in scraps, each one 
asserting the right to tell part ; and she said : “ I am glad that 
Sybil is coming ;” which answer did for all. 

“But are you such a goose, Edyth, as to think you’re going to 
have Sybil all to yourself? You know there’s to be grand doings — 
parties and all that — and she aint going to stay home to play doll- 
babies with you,” said Baste. 

“No, I don’t; but I shall have her sometimes . She can’t always 
be going to parties and things,” replied Edyth, with a pout. 

“ Edyth says Aunt Weston is going to give the greatest ball that 
was ever heard of,” said Con. 

“And Uncle Weston is going to dance the sailor’s hornpipe at 
it ; and Sybil is to be set a-top a gold tripod, to be worshiped to 
the sound of dulcimers and cymbals,” added John, with a merry 
twinkle in his eyes. 

“ John ! ” said Natalie, gravely — for John was naturally given to 
sarcasm, a quality that was to be quenched, if possible ; but the 
young folk, even Edyth, saw the absurdity of the situation he de- 
scribed, and laughed heartily ; but he made no more such com- 
ments ; and only remarked : “ I’m very glad Sybil’s coming. I never 
saw her ; so she’s only a name to me, but I hope she’s jolly !” 


TANGLED PA THS. 73 

c< I wish Miss Arnold could hear you call Sybil jolly !” retorted 
Edyth. 

“Would her hair stand on end? I mean — I beg your pardon, 
Natalie, I mean it would do her good to be jolly,” said John, his 
eyes twinkling, and his face red with the effort to keep within 
bounds. 

The children saw it all, and laughed ; it takes but little wit to 
make them do that when they are in the humor for it ; but in the 
midst of their hilarity Edyth was sent for to go home, and but for 
the expectation of seeing her sister, blended with a very natural 
curiosity to know what she was like, she would have left the bright- 
ness and cheerfulness of that room, as she always did, very reluc- 
tantly. 

Shortly after Edyth got home, Sybil arrived with her father. 
Mrs. Weston, smiling and gracious, and anxious to make an agree- 
able impression on the new power just entering where she had 
hitherto reigned supreme, met them in the hall, and welcomed her 
step-daughter with a cordial embrace. Then she drew Edyth forward 
and introduced her. A single glance, which met an appealing look 
in the blue eyes quickly raised to hers, then shyly withdrawn, and 
Sybil by an involuntary impulse knelt down to bring the child’s face 
level with her own, and with both arms around her, kissed her fore- 
head and lips ; then, as if half ashamed, she rose up, still holding 
Edyth* s willing hand, and said : “ It is so strange to see the sister 
who has been something like a dream to me, but always loved.” 

Mrs. Weston was glad to have Edyth noticed so affectionately, 
yet wondered if it was not a pretty little piece of acting on Sybil's 
part, it was so gracefully done. The woman’s nature was so crusted 
over by artificial conventionalities that spontaneity was incomprehen- 
sible to her except where she imagined a motive. 

There was an unpremeditated grace and simple dignity in every 
movement of Sybil that was extremely attractive ; but it seemed to 
raise her so far beyond her imaginings and hopes of companionship 
that Edyth felt chilled and disappointed, fearing that she would be 
no better off than before she came. 

Sybil’s heart was touched by her step-mother’s affectionate wel- 
come, and she had already discerned that in Edyth’s face which 


74 


TANGLED PA THS. 


gave promise of a loving heart. ■ But her father — she did not know 
it until many years had passed— had been almost overcome on 
meeting her, by her resemblance to her dead mother ; and the 
sacred emotion, instead of warming his manner toward his long 
absent child, had driven his feelings in upon himself, leaving his 
countenance impassible, and the few words that he said after his 
first greeting, cold and constrained. 

The lay-sister who had accompanied Sybil through her long 
journey handed Mr. Weston the baggage checks, a small package, 
and some letters ; he thanked her for her care and kindness to his 
daughter, and invited her to his house, but the good religieuse 
wished to leave by the return train, to get back without loss of time 
to her beloved solitude. There was a brief but touching adieu be- 
tween her and Sybil, whom she had watched over from her earliest 
childhood ; Mr. Weston led his daughter to the carriage, closed the 
door and told the coachman to wait until he returned. He rejoined 
Sister Joseph, saw that she was comfortably seated, ordered hot tea 
and other refreshments to be served to her as quickly as possible, 
and gave particular directions to the conductor to pay her every 
attention along the route. He, being President of the road, had 
only to speak to be obeyed by its employes. 

Parting from this lifelong friend was Sybil’s first grief on coming 
home ; but her father’s coldness divided the sorrow. As she sat 
there alone in the luxurious carriage waiting for him, the bitter 
thought forced itself on her mind, “ My father is not glad to see me 
after I have been waiting and longing all these years to be with him ; 
but I won’t be hasty to judge, for it may be only his way. He has 
seen me so few times in my life that it is no wonder he feels strange 
toward me. But I know our Immaculate Mother will help me in 
doing that which is right ; so I will wait and be patient.” The door 
opened, and Mr. Weston got in. 

“ I stopped,” he remarked, drawing his furred coat over his knees, 
as the carriage drove off, “ to see the good lady who brought you 
made comfortable, as she would not come with us; and did not 
leave her until the train moved out. Are you well wrapped up ? ” 
he said, in the most matter-of-fact, chilling tones. 

“Yes, father ; thank you.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


75 


He did not speak again ; he did not wish to hear the voice there, 
in the darkness, that made him almost believe that the lost love of 
his life was once more beside him ; it was too painful, this conflict 
of memory with unreality, and he was glad when the coachman 
drew up his horses before his own door. He left Sybil in his wife’s 
hands and shut himself in his library, wondering how he should ever 
be able to endure, without betraying himself, a presence in his daily 
life which would constantly remind him of “ now, and then.” He 
was sorry that he had consented to bring his daughter home, and 
almost wished that she had preferred the cloister, forgetting his bit- 
terly expressed opposition to her ever doing so. But she was here, 
and he would fight his weakness down as best he could ; only she 
must not be made to suffer and feel herself unwelcome, where she 
had the best right to be. And withal — if you can understand such 
an anomaly — his heart was yearning with inconceivable tender- 
ness toward his child ; he would liked to have taken her to his 
breast, and held her there, weeping as Jacob did over Benjamin 
when he came up out of Egypt, with joy that he had returned. But, 
pooh ! how could this one clear, deep pool of human feeling escape 
from the glacial fetters that avarice and the world had hemmed 
around and above it? He was sometimes conscious of its existence 
by its efforts to release itself, but thus pent up from flowing into its 
natural channels it only gave him the keenest pain, as on this occa- 
sion. He rang the bell, and ordered a cup of hot coffee, which he 
swallowed as soon as it was brought, and it had the effect of toning 
up his nerves (nobody except himself was ever aware of his having 
nerves), and assisted him to resume the habitual and iron self-con- 
trol that governed his life, so that he was able to meet his family at 
dinner, and assume a stiff sort of cheerfulness, difficult for him to 
maintain. 

Sybil was ill at ease. Everything was so superb and formal, that 
although the aesthetic part of it gratified her natural tastes, there was 
wanting in it, throughout, that which had hitherto in her simple 
convent life formed her happiness, viz. : the genuine, innocent 
cheerfulness, and spirit of piety that permeated the daily existence 
of all who dwelt within its sacred precincts. This was her first 
glimpse of the formal conventionalities of the world. Her step- 


;6 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


mother’s elegant toilette, which struck Sybil’s simple tastes as some- 
thing very splendid, was selected to wear on this occasion, because 
it was really the most quiet one she had. Edyth’s costly apparel — 
the liveried, obsequious servants in waiting — the glitter of silver 
and rare glass — the French dishes, the removal of courses, and the 
formality of it all, made her wonder if the dinner would ever be at 
an end; and also sorry that she could not enjoy what she imagined 
was a feast gotten up in honor of her arrival home, never dreaming 
that it was an every-day affair. She was very glad that she had not 
been worried to change her dress for something more in harmony 
with all this splendor, but had been kindly allowed, after being 
brushed and having her beautiful hair tidied by Mrs. Weston’s 
French maid, to join them at table in her simple traveling suit, be- 
cause her step-mother knew “ that- she must be very tired after her 
journey.” 

“ Your papa said, not long ago, dear, that he hoped you were 
fond of flowers,” said Mrs. Weston, observing her husband’s cold- 
ness and inattention to his daughter, without in the least under- 
standing it ; and afraid, too, even while charmed with her step- 
daughter’s beauty, that she was either too religious or too dull to 
make the mark in society that she had anticipated. Things were 
not harmonizing as she wished ; and, as it was her object to estab- 
lish, good feeling between father and daughter for future use, she be- 
thought herself of this nice little speech. 

“ Yes, mamma, I love flowers dearly,” she answered gently, while 
her thoughts flew instantly back to her little flower garden under the 
south wall of the convent, where it used to be her delight to culti- 
vate the loveliest and most fragrant flowers for the altar and shrines. 

“ I am glad to hear that. I have some fine hot-houses at ‘ West- 
over’ — Ah! here are some samples of what they produce,” ob- 
served Mr. Weston, as one of the servants set two superb flower- 
stands on the table, loaded with rare tropical blooms, and a fruit- 
holder of fretted silver, piled up with gold-tinted pears and white 
grapes interspersed with leaves and vines. 

“ I never saw anything so lovely ! ” said Sybil, looking at the 
beautiful things, with a yearning desire to touch them and to inhale 
their fragrance. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


77 


By a quick glance Mr. Weston discerned her wish, and placed 
one of the flower-stands before her. Japonicas — full flowers, and- 
half-open buds, of pale, delicate tints ; azalias, scarlet blooms, calla 
lilies, and other floral wonders of indescribable purity and beauty 
were there — all new to Sybil, except the lilies ; leaning her face 
near them she discovered no fragrance, but only an earthy odor — 
and the charm was gone ; for it was a pretty fancy of hers that 
perfume was the soul of the flower, each breathing forth a different 
one, according to its kind ; and as there were some that appealed 
to her nature for special favor in this way, there were others which, 
having only the beauty of tint and form to recommend them, she 
was indifferent to ; they excited only a passing admiration ; they 
were without symbol or sentiment to her imagination. 

But I don’t want you to think at the very start that Sybil Weston 
was i'n the least sentimental, as the word is commonly understood. 
That she had the poetic temperament, I grant ; and reared as she 
had been in the close communion of a simple and devout life, and 
en rapport with nature, it is not to be wondered at that her new sur- 
roundings appeared as uncongenial to her pure fancies as the 
heated, heavy air of a darkened, sumptuous room would be to a 
wood-violet which had sprung into life under wild mosses and for- 
est ferns. 

Nor must it be imagined that her intellectual culture had been 
dwarfed by the simplicity of life that reigned at the Convent of 
“ Holy Cross;” on the contrary, her mind and talents were cultivated 
and fostered to the highest degree by the learned and accomplished 
ladies who had charge of her education ; and her character rounded 
into fair, even proportions by the deep religious principles they in- 
stilled, “ grew with her growth, and strengthened with her strength.” 
Her model was the Virgin without stain ; her best reward the sweet 
consciousness of obedience to the precepts of her Divine Son. This 
— to some — may sound too mystical to enter deeply into the mind 
of a young girl ; but they do not understand the manner in which 
Catholic children are reared ; that first, above all, and afterward 
through all, their souls are educated in the science of salvation with 
c-are quite equal to that bestowed on the development of their 
intellectual faculties ; lessons and habits are instilled which are 


73 


TANGLED PATHS. 


rarely forgotten ; or if, as it sometimes happens, they are for a sea- 
son, a time comes when they reassert themselves, and lead back 
the wandering, faithless soul to its only true haven of rest. 

The good nuns of “ Holy Cross,” in the opinion of persons of 
Mrs. Weston’s type, had been very deficient in one respect toward 
their pupil; they had not fitted her in the least for the world — 
which was evidently their duty, seeing that she was to live in it ; 
no, they had failed in this — weighing the world as they did, and 
having fled from its deadly perils, their endeavor was to lead the 
souls of those committed to their care into safer and surer paths, 
that the world, when they entered it, might not deceive and lead 
them astray, and that the beauty of holiness might shine before 
them, a safeguard and guide. So Sybil had come home bearing in 
her soul the pure flower of innocence, and with that sweet simplic- 
ity of mind and those gentle Christian virtues which, had her posi- 
tion been more humble, would have proved a solace and help in 
perfecting her spiritual life. As it was, they were to form the pas- 
sion and cross of her earthly existence, through the trials and temp- 
tations which would assail and beset her through them. 

Mrs. Weston was pleased to observe that Sybil had no gaucheries ; 
that if not glowing and enthusiastic, she was self-possessed, neither 
appearing astonished nor embarrassed by the dazzle and luxuries of 
the home to which she had been so suddenly introduced. She 
imagined that she had something of her father’s cold temperament ; 
but, on reflecting that a composed manner is one of the surest tests 
of high breeding, she thought it was rather an advantage ; and 
hoped that when she became more accustomed to the situation she 
would enjoy it, and become as great a devotee to the world, as she 
desired her to be. “ It will require time, of course, to get rid of 
her prim, convent habits,” thought the worldly-minded woman ; “ but 
I trust to the natural inclinations of young people to make her like 
the rest of them. She’s extremely pretty, but just a mite bordering 
on the statuesque.” 

Mr. Weston retired to his library after dinner — under pretense 
of having letters to write — whither we will not follow him, for it 
would only be to see him sitting in his arm-chair with one hand 
partly shading his face, his eyes half-closed, and an expression of 


TANGLED PATHS. 


79 


gloomy dejection upon his countenance — all his old revolt against 
Providence blending with, and embittering the memories that every 
line of his daughter’s face and every tone of her voice called up 
After he left the dining-room, Mrs. Weston had tried her best to 
make pleasant talk for Sybil; but quite tired out with efforts which 
had been indescribably stupid to her throughout, she leaned back in 
her softly-cushioned chaise-lounge , thinking to rest herself, but in a 
minute or two she was sound asleep. 

“ Come here, little sister,” whispered Sybil, fearing to disturb her 
step-mother. 

Edyth came with an air of deportment that Miss Arnold would 
have highly commended had she seen it. 

“ Now kiss me, for we must be very good friends.” Edyth lifted 
her face, dimpling with smiles, to receive the proffered caress, while 
she thought : “ She’s nice after all.” 

“Now — mamma’s asleep — what shall we do? Can I go to see 
my old maummy ? Tell me, how is she ?” whispered Sybil, her arm 
around Edyth, for as dearly as she loved flowers did she love little 
children. 

“Who? Do you mean Bab? She’s in the nursery, and she’s 
very well.” 

“ Do you call her Bab ? ” 

“ Yes, she’s such a droll, cross old thing.” 

“ Will you show me where the nursery is ? I could not find my 
way in this great house by myself.” 

“I don’t think mamma would be pleased if I took you there,” 
said Edyth, hesitating, for she still regarded Sybil as a distinguished 
guest, who was not to be shown behind the scenes ; “ but if you 
like, I’ll bring her to you; not here, but over yonder, in the ‘bou- 
doir.’ ” 

“ Thanks ! if you think mamma will not mind.” 

“ She won’t care. Come. I’d like to tell you about Aunt Waite 
and Clara and the boys — one of them is crippled — and about 
Natalie.” 

“Natalie!” 

“ Natalie is their governess, you know. But she’s not like Miss 
Arnold ; I hate her." 


8o 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Oh, no ! I’m sure it is not so bad as that, little sister,” said 
Sybil, whom the word hate hurt like a physical pain. 

“•Yes, I hate her. Do you know, she had me trussed up — that’s 
what Bab calls it — with a back-board all this morning, because I 
leaned over just a little, when I was studying.” 

“Poor little back! But back-boards don’t hurt; they’re only 
tiresome, and make one hold up,” said Sybil, as, holding Edyth’s 
hand softly clasped in her long slender fingers, they left the dining- 
room on their way to the boudoir, passing through the magnificent 
suite of rooms, which were only divided from each other by groups 
of marble pillars and draperies of filmy lace on which the cunning 
embroidery lay like frost-work ; where paintings of rare merit, statu- 
uary and mirrors were in perfect accord with the gilded and inlaid 
furniture, the mosaic floors and rich Persian mats, the frescoed ceil- 
ings, gilded cornices, and window-curtains of heavy brocade-satin 
and costly lace. Sybil, intent only on seeing her old maummy, had 
no time then to notice the elegant details of all this splendor, the 
general effect of which was warmth of tone, grace, and perfect har- 
mony of arrangement. But she stopped a moment in the hall ; it 
was so beautiful there, with its high, grotesquely-carved fire-place 
where a wood-fire glowed superbly behind a gilded wire screen, its 
heavy oaken chairs, its carven panels, its tesselated floor that vied 
with that of Diomede of Pompeii, and its antique lamp of stained 
glass, each section of which, as the light shone through, was a per- 
fect gem of art. Then Edyth, instigated by the inborn spirit of 
ostentation inherited from her mother, led her sister through the 
apartments on the opposite side, which were furnished and arranged 
on a scale of grandeur corresponding with the others, though in a 
different style, passed the closed library door, and into the ball-room, 
that ran entirely across the back of the house, terminated at each 
end by great bow-windows of stained glass ; its walls covered with 
flutings of pale rose-colored satin, between the great mirrors which 
seemed to reflect an interminable suite of apartments. It was a 
new world suddenly opened to the young recluse, all this space, 
splendor, and glitter, and Sybil’s heart shrunk within her with an in- 
explicable dread that it would be expected of her to make part and 
parcel of it, in a way that sheYelt an utter incapacity and distaste 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


81 


for. She did not know why, but the sight of it filled her with a 
vague uneasiness which prevented the enjoyment that,* with her in- 
nate love of the beautiful, it would otherwise have afforded her. 

“But where’s the boudoir ?” 

“We have just come to it; see what a nook it is, between the 
ball-room and the drawing-room ! Mamma only comes here to talk 
secrets with people, when there’s a great crowd, and she’s done 
4 receiving.’ It’s a lovely place ; come in, while I go for Bab,” said 
Edyth, more and more delighted at playing cicerone for her new sister. 

It was indeed a rare nook ; the walls covered with pale green 
fluted satin, the wide bow-window hung with clouds of lace, the 
floor carpeted with crimson, the furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl ; 
vases of the same which supported great clusters of red and pink 
corals and tinted sea-grasses in every niche, alabaster sea-nymphs on 
stands of malachite, wonderful shells on silver supports in the form 
of water-lilies ; a marble Undine, and one great mirror, arched deep 
in the wall and draped, so that the reflection of this blending of 
color with objects of beauty, the soft crimson glow of the fire over 
it all, looked like a fairy cavern under the sea. Sybil sat down on 
a satin ponff \ and wondered if these rich and costly arrangements, in 
which human ingenuity had been taxed to produce beautiful effects, 
were necessary or conducive to the happiness of people of the world. 
But, like the Sphinx, the present was dumb ; only the future, un- 
folding its weird leaves one by one, could read her the lesson of 
this world’s nothingness when separated from God. 

“The simple home I have left,” thought the young girl, “is a 
thousand times dearer to me than all this can ever be. But I must 
not seem ungrateful ; and I hope 4 Our Lady full of grace ’ will 
help me if temptation and danger lurk under these forms of beauty, 
or my mind, dazzled by these strange splendors, should lead me in- 
to paths far from her.” 

44 VVhar is you? Whar’s my chile?” were the words that inter- 
rupted Sybil’s reverie. 

44 Oh, maummy ! my dear old maummy ! is it you?” exclaimed 
Sybil, springing up and throwing her arms around h$r old nurse, 
while she kissed her wrinkled, brown cheeks. Edyth stared wonder- 
eyed at a scene so new to her. 

4 * 


82 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“I never did ’spect to cry ag’in,” she sobbed, while Sybil wiped 
the tears away ‘from the old wrinkled face. “ And you’s the very 
moral* of your po’ dear mother ; ef she had riz up from the grave 
an’ stood thar, you couldn’t be more like her.” 

“ My aunt, at the Convent, used to tell me how much I was like 
my mother. I never saw her, maummy, but I’m glad to be like her, 
if it will make other people love me for her sake.” 

They’ll love you anyhow, my purty ! What is you doin’ up so 
late, Edyth ? I’d like to know whar Miss Arnol’ is ? You know, 
your mar don’t ’low it.” 

“Yes, she does. She told me I might sit up with Sy my sis- 

ter,” said Edyth, in a defiant tone. 

“ Let her stay,” said Sybil, reaching out her hand to Edyth and 
drawing her down to her as she resumed her seat on the low pouff. 
“ Come, maummy, here’s one for you too ; sit down and tell me 
about old times, and Aunt Waite, and everybody.” 

You may imagine the tide of talk that followed, and the thousand 
and one questions about herself that Sybil listened to and answered. 
And when Mrs. Weston awoke and missed them, and went from 
one apartment to the other, seeking them, until she came to the 
boudoir, somewhat flushed with her exertions, and saw Sybil on her 
low seat, with Edyth leaning back on her lap, and Barbara with her 
hand clasped around her knees on the rug before them, listening to 
and gazing at her in a perfect ecstasy of delight while she related 
pleasant things of her convent life, that lady stopped on the thresh- 
old, confounded and speechless for an instant. At any other time, 
Mrs. Weston would have stormed at this invasion of her sanctum , 
but, desiring to make a favorable first impression on her step- 
daughter, she refrained, and quietly told Barbara to take Miss 
Edyth up-stairs and put her to bed ; an order which was obeyed, 
but not without many flings and protests from the unwilling 
child. 

“They are both afraid you’ll fly back to ‘Holy Cross’ in the 
night, my dear. Your young mistress has come home to live for 

* A common expression in negro dialect to express a striking resem- 
blance. 


TANGLED PA T FIS. 83 

good,” Mrs. Weston said to Barbara, as' she was leaving the boudoir 
with Edyth. 

“ It’s high time, an’ I’m mighty glad to hear it, Miss’ Weston ; 
an’ the Lord put it into your heart, madam, to be good and kind to 
her,” said the old woman, turning round for an instant, and lifting 
lip her shriveled hand, as if in adjuration, as she spoke. 

“ I’ll try ; but go now ; Miss Sybil will pay you a visit in the nurs- 
ery to-morrow sometime,” said Mrs. Weston, more gently than might 
have been expected ; for she was impressed by Barbara’s manner 
and words, in spite of herself. Then holding out her jeweled hand 
to Sybil, she laughed and said : “ Quite a little scene ! but come, 
my dear, you must be very much fatigued after your long journey, 
and unless you have been transformed to an Undine by the en- 
chantments of my sea-grotto and would like to stay, I’ll show you 
your room-.” 

Hoping that she had not done amiss in coming uninvited to this 
favored spot, Sybil took her step-mother’s hand, and rose up from 
her low seat, ready to go with her. Mrs. Weston drew her hand 
under her own arm, still holding it with a soft pressure in her clasp, 
and they went up the wide staircase together. 

“Your papa told me to say ‘ good-night,’ with his love;” (she 
had not seen her husband since dinner, but she salved over the 
pretty white lie to her own conscience by assuring herself that it 
was exactly what he would or should have said, and thought it was 
better than to have Sybil, while yet a stranger in her father’s house, 
made to feel badly by his neglect). “ He has so much business 
to attend to that he’s almost a stranger to his family ; it’s nothing 
but business ! business ! business ! year in and year out ; and I 
wonder he don’t die. /should ! ” 

“ I am sorry papa has to work so hard ! ” said Sybil, with simple 
faith, although she wondered afterward why he should do so when 
he was so rich and so abundantly supplied with everything that the 
world could give. 

“Yes, it is a pity; but I suppose there’s a sort of excitement in 
it that men like. Here is your room ; it is entirely yours, my dear ; 
we have spared no expense in fitting it up ; your father and I wished 
to make it very beautiful, and I hope you’ll like it,” said Mrs. Wes- 


8 4 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


ton, throwing open the door of an exquisitely furnished bedroom. 
“ Come in and see if it is to your taste.” 

Sybil must indeed have had tastes difficult to gratify had not the 
soft coloring and refined arrangements of this, her own room, struck 
her as being, on the whole, extremely beautiful. A wood fire, sup- 
ported by a pair of century-old brass andirons and protected by a 
quaintly-carved brass fender, the metals polished to a dazzling silvery 
whiteness, sparkled and blazed in the marble fire-place, and the gas- 
light shone, softly shaded, through pale rose-colored porcelain globes. 
The carpet had a white ground, sprinkled with fern-leaves and wild- 
roses ; the furniture was blue, inlaid with mother-of-pearl ; the win- 
dow curtains were of blue damask and white lace. The bed was 
covered with a dainty white-and-blue spread ; even the pillow-cases 
were embroidered and trimmed with lace ; in fact, there was nothing 
wanting that a refined and luxurious taste could suggest. 

“It is lovely, mamma, and I thank you and papa very much for 
taking all this trouble for me. And this dear wood-fire ! it reminds 
me of home — of the Convent I mean ” — said Sybil, glancing around, 
and going tow r ard the fire. 

“ Yes, every one likes a wood-fire ! your papa will have them in 
some of the rooms; he thinks them more healthy than coal, -and 
they are great company when one is alone, with their merry little 
sounds, and sparks, and different-colored flames. They make me 
almost feel poetical sometimes ; but perhaps, dear, you do not know 
that those old andirons and this fender were brought from England 
by your ancestors who came over with Lord Baltimore ? Barbara 
has had care of them ever since — I mean these many years — and it 
is her pride to keep them just as you see them. I thought you’d 
like to have them here,” said Mrs. Weston, as she fluttered around, 
arranging a fold here, moving a chair there, giving the mantel vases 
a touch, and smoothing the embroidered pillows with her white, 
jeweled hands as she spoke. She meant that Sybil should be made 
aware of the pains she had been at for her. 

“ Indeed I do like to have them here, mamma. It was so kind 
of you to think of all these things,” answered Sybil, her heart in- 
stantly touched by the little history of the andirons and fender ; old 
relics, not only of her family, but of a saintly and just man, who 


TA NGLED PA TBS . 8 5 

illustrated by his virtues the sublime liberality of the faith he planted 
on the shores of Maryland. 

“It is a great pleasure to me to know that you are satisfied, 
and that things meet your wishes here ; for you understand, Sybil, 
that this room is exclusively your own. And — oh ! I thought I had 
forgotten something — there’s a niche over there that I left empty, 
so that you might just have some little thing to do toward finishing 
the arrangements. I thought it would give you a more entire feeling 
of ownership to do so.” What could be more kind or considerate ? 
Had she been Sybil’s own mother, how could she have done more ? 

“ Thank you, dear mamma ; indeed I do not know how to thank 
you,” said Sybil, holding up her face to kiss her step-mother — the 
first spontaneous demonstration of affection she had yet shown her. 
That niche, empty and bare, delighted her truly beyond expression, 
for she knew just exactly what she would place therein to consecrate 
this place where all would be incomplete and strange forever to her 
without it. 

“An alabaster Psyche would look lovely there. But indeed you 
must go to bed ; it is -eleven o’clock, and I’m sure you are very tired 
after your journey. To-morrow we shall be busy all day, shopping 
and going to the dressmaker’s. Good-night ! don’t forget to turn 
down the gas — so, Pleasant dreams to you.” 

“Good-night, mamma,” said Sybil, her guileless heart filled up to 
overflowing with gratitude toward her step-mother, whose kindness 
and affectionate care for her in every respect had taken her quite 
by surprise, for it had been intimated to her by one who was her 
dear friend and counselor at the Convent of Holy Cross that she 
would have need to exercise great prudence and forbearance in the 
new relations into which she would be thrown at home, and that 
she must not expect that affection from her step-mother that it would 
have been natural to claim and have had from her own ; she must 
be satisfied to endeavor to win her friendship and approval by obedi- 
ence and a course of conduct by which she would be convinced 
there was neither a disposition on her part to rival her in her father’s 
atfection nor usurp her authority in his house. Warnings that were 
not unwise, knowing that Sybil was going home a stranger, as it 
were, to those nearest to her ; but now, alone there in her beautiful 


86 


TANGLED PATHS. 


room, her heart glowing with a sense of her step-mother’s kindness, 
she smiled to herself and thought how many anxious thoughts her 
good aunt — the Lady Superior of “ Holy Cross ” — had been spared, 
had she ever seen or known her father’s wife. 

Then all the superb elegance of her father’s house passed like a 
dazzling panorama through her fancy, and she felt convinced that 
such display was not intended for the requirements of the simple 
home-life that her modest, retiring nature and the happy seclusion 
in which her days had passed would have best loved. She had a 
foreboding that this could not be ; but that the world with its fashion- 
able pomps and vanities would come surging around her, and that 
she would be expected to take part in doing honor to her father’s 
wealth and station. They had told her at “ Holy Cross” that she 
was to make her debut in the exclusive circles of high life, and was 
warned at the same time to keep herself “unspotted from the world.” 
“ But how ? ” she asked herself — “ how ? ” 

“ I only hope and pray — thou knowest, O Blessed Mother, how 
sincerely — that mamma, who seems so kind, will not insist upon my 
spending my time visiting, dressing, dancing, and I don’t know'what. 
I know that she will wish me to appear with ecldt among her fashion- 
able friends, and give me every pleasure ; but perhaps when I tell 
her how irksome and distasteful it is she will leave me to my own 
choice.” 

Ah, untried heart ! heart never yet assailed by the alluring temp- 
tations of the world, how know you that they will prove either irk- 
some or distasteful ? or that you will not step above the quicksands 
without a doubt of the safety of your steps ? If poverty has its pain, 
its tears, its cross, riches are not exempt from bitterness- of soul — 
and deadly perils difficult, except by almost a miracle, to escape. 

Sybil stood there in the firelight, lost in perplexing thoughts ; and 
with her eyes fixed, half veiled by their drooping lids, on the waver- 
ing brightness of the merry blaze, without seeing it, she looked more 
like a vestal keeping her vigil on the eve of her vows, than one des- 
tined to the pomps and vanities of the world. She was tall, slender, 
and very fair ; her eyes of that neutral tint which is colored either 
brown or blue by emotion ; her features clearly cut and exquisitely 
regular, the oval outline of her face terminated by a delicately 


TANGLED PATHS. 


87 


rounded, but firm chin. It was a face in which there was much 
latent character, not yet fully developed, but time and circumstances 
would do that. 

A little, quick tap on her door startled her out of her reverie ; she 
opened it, and there was old Barbara. 

“ I didn’t scare you, honey, did I ? I had such a longin’ to see 
you, to make sure it was you, that I coined creepin’ along to listen 
if you was up; and I. seen the light over the door thar — then I 
knocked. It is you, yourself, sure ’nuff — flesh and blood, and no 
ghost !” said Barbara, fondling Sybil’s hand, which she lifted to her 
lips and kissed, whispered “ good-night,” and hurried away as if 
afraid that her midnight visit would be detected. 

“ Dear, faithful old mautnmy ! ” said Sybil, as she closed and 
locked her door, both touched and amused by Barbara’s unexpected 
appearance. Then, before turning off the gas, she observed for the 
first time that the draperies and furniture of her room were blue and 
white — and her heart pulsed with a strange pleasure, for these were 
the colors of our blessed Lady, and she planned how she would en- 
throne her beautiful image, which she had brought from “ Holy 
Cross,” in that niche, in the morning, as soon as she could get it out 
of her trunk — which had not yet come — and decorate it with the 
pressed vines, the bright-tinted leaves, and feathery grasses that she 
and Sister Joseph had gathered at recreation hours in the autumn, 
and prepared for this very purpose. “ And then,” she said, uncon- 
sciously folding her hands and looking upward, “ when I* consecrate 
this place to thee, my loving Mother, if I can not live here in this 
grand house as thou didst live at Nazareth, I will try yet harder to 
imitate thy virtues.” 

And full of such sweet and pious fancies, Sybil went to rest; and, 
dreaming, thought she was back at “ Holy Cross,” dressed in rich 
white attire, and crowned with lilies, while sounds of music and the 
glitter of hundreds of tapers, and singing, were around and about 
her, like a festival. 


CHAPTER VI. 


Sybil arose at her usual time the next morning; when, her devo- 
tions being over and her simple toilet completed, she sat down, 
expecting to be summoned every moment to join the family, but such 
silence reigned in the house that she opened her door softly, to ascer- 
tain if any one was stirring of whom she could inquire at what hour 
they breakfasted. She saw no one, however ; but there were her 
trunks in the hall, close to her door, where they had been placed 
under Maum Barbara’s superintendence, without noise or bustle — 
long after she had fallen asleep — for fear of disturbing her slumbers 
after her day’s journey. 

“ I’ll do what I can before breakfast,” thought Sybil. “ As it is 
just seven o’clock, I may have a half hour to unpack and get some 
of my things away. Mass is just over at ‘ Holy Cross,’ and the 
girls are going into the refectory to breakfast. How strange not to 
be there, but here, in all this splendor ! and to know that I am 
under my father’s roof ! I wish I could feel at home ; but may be 
that will come by and by.” 

Sybil unlocked her trunks and set them open ; then her first care 
was to look after a certain precious package that contained an ala- 
baster statue of the Virgin Mother — the parting gift of her aunt, the 
Mother-Superioress of the Convent; she quickly found it, and lay- 
ing it upon her bed, proceeded to open the straw in which it was so 
carefully packed, unwound the thick layers of soft white wool that 
wrapped it, then removed the fine linen napkin that was folded around 
it, and there was her treasure unharmed. She raised it up, and as 
a slant ray of sunshine touched the sweet carven faces of Mother 
and Child with radiance, they seemed to smile upon her ; then she 
hastened to place it in the niche which by a loving Providence had 
been left vacant for her to furnish ; by a devout impulse she pressed 
( 88 ) 


TANGLED PA THS. 


89 


her lips to the sandaled feet of the blessed image of her who had 
been the holy of holies in which God Himself had abode, her hu- 
manity the veiled Tabernacle of the Most High ; the feet that had 
supported the sinless body in whose arms and on whose bosom the 
Redeemer of the world had been enthroned ; the feet — so faithful 
and humble — that never tired of serving and following Him, from • 
the Manger to the Cross. Not that these mystical thoughts passed 
through Sybil’s mind at that instant, any more than a child calls up 
in review all that the maternal love is to its existence whenever it is 
impelled by a sentiment which is the accumulation of everything it 
would express, to show by some spontaneous caress the depth of 
its gratitude and tenderness. 

And how lovely the chaste image — graceful and correct in every 
line, yet rendered by the cunning of the sculptor’s art most spirituelle 
and holy in expression — looked against the delicate neutral back- 
ground of the niche ! Flying to her trunk, Sybil found the paper 
box containing her pressed autumnal leaves, dried grasses and ferns, 
immortelles and brightly-tinted vines ; these she deftly and tastefully 
arranged, some within the arch, in graceful vases of bisque that she 
had brought from her dear Convent home, others over the arch of 
the niche and trailing down its sides, all intermingled with the rich 
scarlets, bronze-hued and crimson-veined forest leaves, with palm- 
like ferns and feathery grasses, in a way she had learned when per- 
mitted to assist in decorating the sacred places for the festivals at 
“ Holy Cross.” 

By the time Sybil finished, and saw that there was nothing want- 
ing in the beautiful effect produced, her room was flooded with sun- 
shine ; it was eight o’clock. She did not know that Maummy had 
been waiting for the past hour to hear the first tinkle of her bell, 
to come in and make her fire — which, however, had not burnt out, 
but emitted sufficient heat from the still glowing coals to prevent 
her feeling chilled ; indeed Sybil had not observed the heavy blue 
and silver bell-cord, with its rich tassel, that hung near her bed ; 
and even had she, all unused to such luxuries as she was, she would 
not have known for what purpose it was intended ; but she began 
to feel a little fidgety again for fear they might be waiting break- 
fast for her, and that her not coming down would incommode and 


90 


TANGLED PA THS. 


displease her step-mother ; and yet, with a natural impulse of shv- 
ness, she concluded to wait a little longer, hoping that somebody 
would come to her. She unpacked her trunks, and put her things 
away in the neat order she had been taught at “ Holy Cross,” by 
which time it was nine o’clock ; then, quite desperate as well as 
hungry, she determined to wait no longer, but ran down-stairs to 
the dining-room, where she saw no preparations for breakfast, the 
table being entirely bare ; and she imagined that it was over, and 
every one gone. But while standing there in utter perplexity, 
she heard some one poking at a fire in an adjoining room, which 
was separated from the one she was in only by rich crimson draper- 
ies, looped back in heavy folds against each side of a wide, com- 
municating doorway. She stepped through, and found herself in a 
cosy, beautiful apartment — small in proportion to the others in that 
great wilderness of a house — in the center of which a round table 
was spread ; a bright sea-coal fire glowed and purred in the grate, 
and a respectable-looking elderly servant-man was busy with a feather 
brush dusting some dainty Sevres ornaments on the. mantel-piece. 

“ I’m afraid I am late for breakfast !” said Sybil to the servant, 
who had not seen her enter. 

“ Oh 1 — I beg your pardon — you be Miss Weston, I suppose, 
Miss. I’se mighty glad to see you home!” said the old fellow, 
starting around as the gentle voice broke the silence. 

“ Thank you,” said Sybil, with a smile, and holding out her hand, 
which was taken and held and shaken with the most reverential yet 
hearty welcome, while the dusky face that bowed over it was wrink- 
led into a thousand smiles. “ But will you tell me, please, where 
everybody is ? ” 

“ Yes, Miss ; set down, Miss,” he said, drawing a chair to the ta- 
ble. “I’m Peter, Miss, at your service. You see, Miss, Madame 
has her coffee in her room, and doesn’t breakfast till ’bout ’leven 
o’clock ; Miss Edyth aVays takes her meals in the nussery — ” 

“ But my father, Peter : has he breakfasted ? ” 

“ Bless you, Miss, Master he eats his breakfast at eight ’clock, 
reg’lar ; then he goes right away to the bank. Will you choose 
tea or coffee, Miss ? The rolls and the omlette souffly will be on 
the table in a minute.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


91 


“ Coffee, if you please,” said Sybil, wishing that her father had left 
just one little word for her, to show that he remembered she was 
there. Then she wondered if he would not let her breakfast with 
him every morning, thinking how lonely it must be for him to be 
taking his first meal without a soul near him to speak to. But how 
could she ever venture to propose such a thing to him and he so 
unapproachable ? It was very evident to her that her presence was 
in no way to disturb the established order of things in this grand 
household ; so, having blessed herself with the sacred Sign of the 
Cross, she whispered the old Convent grace and began her solitary 
meal. 

“ I forgot this, Miss,” said Peter, placing a small cluster of tea- 
roses and violets before her after having arranged her tempting break- 
fast on the table, which was served in the daintiest enameled china, 
each piece a rare work of art in design and coloring. 

“ Ah ! thanks ! ” said Sybil, taking up the flowers to inhale their 
fragrance and feast her eyes on the delicate blue of the violets, and 
the great saffron-tinted roses veined with pink that were just half 
open and heavy with the languor of their own delicious perfume. 
“ Who told you to bring me these ? ” she asked, with a half-formed 
hope which made the blood surge up to her face. 

“Master did, Miss. He says to me: 1 Peter, my daughter is 
fond'of flowers ; put a few on the table when she comes to break- 
fast,’ says he ; and these is the ones I picked out, Miss — they’s just 
in from Westover, Miss — that’s why they smells so sweet.” 

“ Thank' you very much ; they are very sweet and very beauti- 
ful ! ” said Sybil, in gentle tones, disappointed, but not altogether 
so, for her father had thought of her after all ; and being hungry, she 
enjoyed the more what she ate. She made up her mind then that 
she would give herself no more anxiety about the ways of the strange 
life into which she had come, but be passive and accept them as they 
presented themselves in their various phases, in so far as nothing 
should be demanded to which her conscience could not give ap- 
proval ; then — well, “ sufficient ^ for the day was the evil thereof,” 
and why should she think that she would encounter trials of that 
sort ? This was to be her home henceforth; her duties would center 
here, whatever they might be ; and as they presented themselves 


9 2 


TANGLED PATHS. 


she would gather them up, one by one, and with God’s help do the 
best she might to weave them in and out in her daily existence, in a 
pattern that would be fair in His sight. You may think perhaps 
that such thoughts were very solemn and unnatural, with all that ele- 
gance, luxury, and wealth around her, and she just in the morning- 
glow of life, with unlimited happiness before her; but remember the 
innocent peacefulness of her past in the seclusion of a home from 
which the world was excluded, and you will no longer wonder at her 
grave outlook on untried paths filled with seductive temptations; At 
this moment she realized a pleasant enjoyment in being there in 
that beautiful, cosy room, and having all her wants anticipated by a 
quiet, respectable servant, who was attentive just at the right mo- 
ment, and understood his business too thoroughly for his presence 
to be uncomfortable; to see, wherever her eye rested, something 
tasteful or splendid; to feel the pleasantly-tempered warmth of the 
atmosphere ; to hear no sound as she moved over the costly Per- 
sian carpet ; to see the sun glinting into the windows through lace 
that looked like frost-work, which hung in diaphanous folds between 
the heavy satin curtains ; to rest her gaze on the fine paintings of 
game and ‘fruit and flowers that hung against the neutral-tinted 
walls — then with new interest upon the rich carving on the rose- 
wood buffet of a procession of Bacchantes and attendant Satyrs, 
until attracted by the glitter of silver and cut crystal upon its slabs 
of Sienna marble, details which were all worth notice, while the gen- 
eral effect they produced was in perfect harmony with her aesthetic 
tastes. A soft reverie stole over Sybil, showing it to be just possi- 
ble that in her passionate love for the beautiful might be found the 
vulnerable spot through which temptation would find access to her 
innocent soul. 

“There’s the mornin’ paper, Miss,” said Peter, handing her the 
leading daily ; “ Master always reads it through, Miss, ’fore he goes 
out. I’s goin’ to my pantry now, and if you want anything jest give 
this little silver knob a push, and I’ll come. That’s the butler’s 
bell, Miss,” added the old servant, with a certain pride. 

“ You are the butler, then?” answered Sybil, pleasantly, willing 
to humor his innocent vanity. “You will hear the bell should I 
want anything.” 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


93 


Then Peter disappeared ; and Sybil opened the paper, feeling in 
duty bound to look it over, as it had been brought to her and rec- 
ommended by the information that it was her father’s daily reading. 
Seating herself in a low, luxuriously-cushioned chair by the fire, she 
glanced up and down the closely-printed columns, headed by start- 
ling capitals, which seemed to indicate destruction to the country 
at large, then chaos ; she saw that people were being murdered and 
others hanged ; she saw reports of trials for crimes against which 
the Divine vengeance is threatened in the persons of those who are 
guilty of breaking His Commandments ; she saw accounts of sinful 
frauds by which orphans and widows were cast homeless and desti- 
tute upon the world ; and that men who governed the country were 
accused openly of foul and unlawful acts ! It was the first secular 
paper Sybil ever saw ; and having an idea — an error most young 
people fall into, which makes newspaper literature all the more 
dangerous to their unformed minds — that everything so publicly 
given to the world must be true , a sick, faint sensation crept into her 
heart ; the paper, much of the contents of which was as unintelligi- 
ble to her pure mind as the hieroglyphics of Babylon, dropped from 
her hand and fell rustling to the floor. 

“ Oh, what a dreadful place the world must be !” she whispered. 

But she did not know the worst ; there was no one to tell her 
then that the newspapers that circulated broadcast over the land, 
morning and evening and on Sunday, by hundreds of thousands, 
helped beyond all other known agencies to demoralize and poison 
the innocent minds of the young, who, becoming early acquainted 
with crime in its most revolting forms, not only through their sensa- 
tional columns, but by their advertisements, grow curious as to the 
meaning of the things they read, then familiar with details, until every 
evil passion of human nature is roused into action, and it requires too 
often only the opportunity to plunge headlong into actual guilt. Sybil 
felt sure that had Peter known the horrid things that were in that 
paper he would not have offered it to her to read, and was confident 
that by a mistake he had substituted it for her father’s. She pushed 
the small silver knob, and Peter made his appearance at the door 

“I think,” she said, pointing to the paper, “you had better take 
that away; I have quite done with it.” 


94 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Yes, Miss,” he replied, not understanding her in the least ; and 
folding the great sheet carefully, he smoothed it with his hand, 
gave it a pat to get out the last crinkle, and laid it on the table 
by the coffee urn. “ The Madame reads it while she’s takin’ 
breakfast.” 

“ Oh ! does she ? ” gasped Sybil, glad that she had not put the 
paper under the grate. “ Will you please give me a wine-glass or 
something to put my flowers in ? ” 

“ Will this do, Miss ? ” he said, bringing in a dainty crystal bou- 
quet-holder, covered with a network of silver. 

“This maybe needed. How pretty it is!” said Sybil, wishing 
that she might take it. 

“ You take it, Miss ; we’s got dozens like it,” was the response. 

Sybil felt no more hesitation ; she poured some water into the 
small vase ; then her flowers, which just filled it, were arranged in 
it, and she hurried up to her room, placed the fragrant offering at 
the feet of Mary, and proceeded to get her best things out; so that 
when Mrs. Weston sent for her to go to her aunt’s, and then to 
shop, she would not be obliged to keep her waiting. She would 
have liked very much to run to the nursery to see Edyth and Maum 
Barbara, but did not know where it was, and thought it would not 
perhaps be proper to do so without leave, even if she did. 

It was after eleven o’clock when Mrs. Weston, after tapping at 
Sybil’s door, came in with a pleasant “Good-morning, my dear,” 
not only to see if her step-daughter was ready to go out, but for the 
purpose of making whatever suggestions might be found necessary 
to improve her toilet, which she imagined must of necessity be old- 
fashioned and outre , all her things having been made at “ Holy 
Cross.” But in this Mrs. Weston was mistaken. The most fastid- 
ious taste could have found nothing to object to in Sybil’s toilet ; a 
closely-fitting dress of dark green serge, trimmed with simple folds 
of invisible green velvet, the drapery of the overskirt without puffings 
or furbelows, the skirt ornamented with a deep-plaited flounce only, 
while a fine plain linen collar confined at the throat by a knot of 
pale rose-colored ribbon, cuffs of the same at the wrists, fastened 
with tortoise-shell buttons veined with gold, and a velvet hat the- 
color of her dress, turned up in front with a bow of the same deli- 


TANGLED PATHS. 915 

cate tint as the one at her throat, completed its details, and pro- 
duced an effect as simple as it was elegant. 

44 Really — but you have no wrappings, Sybil ? ” 

44 Oh yes, mamma; a sacque, like my dress — here it is — ” 

44 I must say that the nuns have some idea of how people dress 
in the world. That does very nicely for a school-girl ; but we must 
hunt up something more stylish for a young lady debutante ,” said 
Mrs. Weston. 

“ A French lady, mamma, who is a recluse at 4 Holy Cross/ at- 
tends to the making of our dresses ; her friends in Paris send her 
patterns, and they are very simple, because they say that the young 
ladies jhere do not dress very much,” said Sybil, drawing on her 
gloves. 

44 Nonsense, my dear. No ladies, old or young, dress with such 
perfect taste as the French ! That’s one of the little conventual 
parables told to keep your heads from running too much on finery 
at the expense of your studies. But you do look very nicely ! ” said 
Mrs. Weston, laughing — she having imbibed her ideas of French 
taste from the fashions prepared expressly for the American market, 
very unlike the styles worn by French ladies of the bon-ton or the 
higher class, as she afterward found out. ~ 

44 1 was afraid I should be almost too fine ! ” said Sybil, with an 
ingenuous blush ; 44 and I am glad, mamma, that you think 1 will do. 
May I run and see Edyth for a moment ? ” 

44 Oh, no, my dear ; you must not spoil Edyth. Miss Arnold finds 
her very unmanageable sometimes, and never likes her study-hours 
interrupted ; she’ll be down at dessert, if she’s good. Come — ah ! 
I see you have furnished your niche ! How very pretty ! ” said Mrs. 
Weston, who caught sight of it as she turned to leave the room, then 
went and stood before it. 44 It is extremely pretty ! I must get 
you a prie-dieu , upholstered in blue,” said Mrs. Weston, with more 
regard for the beauty and fitness of things than from a spirit of de- 
votion. 44 And I really think I shall get something like it fitted up 
in my own room ; it looks picturesque, and I imagine that I could 
make a lovely nook with mother-of-pearl things, and lilies, and a 
-tatue of the Blessed Lady with a veil of real lace thrown over her. 
As soon as I can get a moment’s time I’ll set about it ; but come) 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


96 

my dear, we will be late.” Sybil was glad to hear that her step- 
mother intended doing this, and it seemed to give her a sentiment 
of trust toward her which she had not felt before. 

“ To Mrs. Waite’s first, Donald,” was the order given to the 
coachman, through the speaking-tube, after they got into the car- 
riage ; and they rolled away with a scarcely perceptible motion, so 
nicely was every spring hung, and so softly padded all the satin 
cushions. 

“ You know, Sybil, we must run in a moment to see your aunt, 
before we go down-town ; and I hope you’ll like her ; but I must 
tell you that she’s one of those bread-and-butter, goody sort of people, 
who seem to find no greater pleasure on earth than in vegetating. 
She does not go into society, and of course never entertains, and my * 
wonder is that her humdrum way of living don’t unsettle her wits.” 

Arrived at Mrs. Waite’s, they were ushered into the old-fashioned 
drawing-room, where at once a quiet home-feeling crept into Sybil’s 
heart, as if she had been there before, everything looked so familiar. 
So she had been — in this very apartment, in this very house, where 
the first three years of her life were spent ; but that was so long ago 
as to leave no distinct recollection on her mind ; only the slight im- 
pression remained, which- seemed like a half-remembered and con- 
fused dream of something pleasant. Mrs. Waite now came in to 
welcome them. 

“ I have brought Sybil to see you ; here she is ; Sybil, this is your 
aunt,” said Mrs. Weston, rising to meet her, and shaking hands, then 
presenting her step-daughter. 

“ My darling, I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Waite, as she em- 
braced Sybil, and then held her off to scan her face. Tears filled 
her eyes when she saw the strong resemblance she bore to her dead 
mother ; she could almost imagine herself to be just awakening from 
a dream, and this the fair young bride whom she had welcomed years 
ago to her brother’s house. She said nothing, however, Mrs. Weston 
being present ; she only pressed Sybil close to her bosom, and kissed 
her tenderly, in memory of the gentle young mother so long passed 
away, as one kisses the face of the dead. 

“ Come sit here, my child,” said Mrs. Waite, drawing her to the 
sofa, where, still holding her hand, she sat down beside her. “ I 


TANGLED PATHS . 


97 

hope you’ll like us when you come to know us, for we are your near- 
est living relations except your aunt at 4 Holy Cross.’ ” 

“ I am sure that I shall love you all — most dearly ! ” said Sybil, 
returning the pressure of the hand that held hers, and wondering how 
any person could apply the term 44 humdrum ” to so lovely and dig- 
nified a person as her aunt. “ If she was £ humdrum ’ she hoped 
that she would meet with many others like her,” were the thoughts 
that flashed through her mind — a dawning sentiment of that confi- 
dence which afterward ripened into the tenderest affection. 

“ I must take you up to see John and Clara ; and I hope Con and 
Baste are in, for it is a half holiday to-day — that is, if you would like 
to come ? ” said Mrs. Waite, with a slight hesitation. 

“Oh, yes, dear aunt ; may I, mamma?” 

“Yes; but don’t stay,” said Mrs. Weston, inwardly fretted. “ I 
have hundreds of things to do down-town, dear ; and as you are at 
home now for good and all, you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted 
with your cousins some other time. How is John, Louise ? ” 

“ The bright sunshine to-day has been a panacea for his aches, and 
he announced himself this morning as being 4 himself again ’ ; but 
won’t you come with us, Anne ? ” 

44 Mercy ! no ! give my love to them all. I’ll leave some bon-bons 
for them as I come back. Somehow, children never care for my 
company.” 

44 And you — ? ” 

44 Oh, I don’t pretend to be fond of children ; they put my head 
in a state of buzz the moment I go where they are. I haven’t the 
least vocation in that line; but don’t mind me, and get back as soon 
as ever you can,” said Mrs. Weston, with a good-natured laugh. 

Mrs. Waite threw open the school-room door, and led Sybil in. 

44 Here is your cousin Sybil, boys ; and, Sybil dear, this is our 
friend Natalie ; and this my own little daughter, Clara,” said Mrs. 
Waite, indicating each one. There was no ceremony ; the children 
thronged around her — their frank, ingenuous faces glowing welcomes 
- — a little shy, yet not awkward, as they greeted their stranger cousin. 
Sybil kissed them all round, shook hands with Natalie, and then knelt 
down by John’s wheeled chair to ask him how he did, and examine 
some stereoscopic views with which he had been amusing himself, 
5 


TANGLED PA THS. 


98 

the others pressing round, thinking her the prettiest cousin that had 
ever been seen ; and each one had something to say, or something 
to tell, or something to show. It was : “ Natalie did this,” or “ Na- 
talie told us all about that,” or “ Natalie says so and so,” until at 
length, impressed by the iteration, Sybil turned slightly to glance at 
Natalie, who was seated at the table, bending over some exercises 
that she was correcting, which gave her a fair opportunity to note the 
pale, statuesque beauty of her face and the indelible shadow which 
something deep down in the past spread over its lineaments. 

“That’s Natalie,” whispered John, observing Sybil’s looks. 

Natalie looked up at the instant ; and, their eyes meeting, they 
read each other with that mysterious intuition which seems almost 
like an outflashing of intelligence from soul to soul. One of the 
natures innocent and noble, the other a snow-peak among the clouds, 
or an icy chasm made by the falling of an avalanche — no one could 
tell — it was only known that its hidden life was inaccessible, but 
whether from height or depth was the mystery. It is only certain 
that when the violet-tinted eyes of Sybil met the gray-blue ones of 
Natalie, which shone at the moment with the glorious irridescencc 
of a polar midnight, the same chord was touched in both hearts, and 
without speech established a sympathetic intelligence between them, 
scarcely understood by either at the time. Natalie instantly resumed 
her task ; Sybil turned again to Clara and the boys, who were clamor- 
ing for her to take off her hat and stay with them all day, and were 
altogether heedless of their mother’s remonstrances for once ; while 
Sybil, full of merriment, parried their attacks with pleasant jests and 
fair promises. In the midst of all this, old Thomas’ white head and 
brown face was thrust in at the door, with his usual quirk of a bow, 
after which he said : “ Miss’ Weston had sent him up to tell the 
young lady as she was waitin’, and would she please to come ? ” 

“ I’m afraid you must go, darling,” said Mrs. Waite, rising. 

“ Oh, it is very pleasant here ! ” answered Sybil — raising herselt 
lip, however, from the midst of the group that clustered around her 
on the floor. She turned toward the door to say she would be down 
immediately, when the sunlight reflected from the window-ledge made 
the atmosphere brighter just where she stood, and brought out more 
distinctly the outline of her figure and every feature of her face. Old 


TANGLED PA THS. 


99 


Thomas gazed at her for a moment, his eyes growing rounder and 
wilder, his hands uplifted, his mouth open and speechless ; for, see- 
ing her unexpectedly there, and not knowing who she was, he thought 
surely that the young mistress he had served and loved years ago 
had returned from the dead — and before any one could speak to tell 
him how it was, he covered his face with his hands and went away, 
shutting the door behind him. 

“ Whew ! ” whistled Baste, not in the least comprehending the old 
man’s expressive pantomime. 

“ Sybil ! ” said Mrs. Waite, gently, “ has no one told you yet how 
perfectly you resemble your mother ? ” 

“ Maummy Barbara did last night ; she w*as very much affected 
when she first saw me. Was that one of the old servants here just 
now ? ” 

“ Yes, dear ; faithful and true. Tom loved the very ground that 
your mother’s feet touched ; and no wonder ! for through her his 
wife and children were saved from being sold to a distant part of the 
South ; and your father, thinking to please her the more, gave them 
their freedom after buying them, and offered Tom his, which he re- 
fused point blank.” 

This conversation was in low tones, as Mrs. Waite and Sybil stood 
apart from the others ; and the girl’s young heart, touched to the 
core, sprang up in hope of yet winning the affection of her father, 
who had performed so noble and generous an act toward the op- 
pressed. It made her happier to have heard it, and the strange feel- 
ings of her new existence relaxed their cold pressure about her heart. 
There was, too, an atmosphere of blended sincerity, affection, and 
genuine cheerfulness in her aunt’s home which made it already feel 
like a “ city of refuge ” to her. 

Leaning over John, she kissed his forehead, took leave of the boys 
and Clara, who were outspoken in their indignation at her being hur- 
ried away just when they were getting acquainted ; then timidly offer- 
ing her hand to Natalie, who held it coldly for an instant in her own, 
said, “ Good-morning, Miss Weston,” and then resumed her work, 
feeling that a presence that had warmed her frozen heart was gone 
when Sybil went away. 


IOO 


TANGLED PA TI/S. 


“ We shall lose the best light for Verdan’s silks, my love,” was 
Mrs. Weston’s greeting. “ How could you stay so long?’* 

“ I am sorry I kept you waiting, mamma, but I wanted to get ac- 
quainted with my bright little cousins. Did I stay very long ? ” 

“ Exactly fifteen minutes by the clock there,” observed Mrs. 
Waite, 

“ Is that really all ? Well, I have been very comfortable, and all 
that ; but you know, Louise, that this poor child is to have an outfit 
— her father wishes it, you know — and as the season opens in about 
a week, I have no time to lose. She hasn’t a single presentable 
thing to wear.” 

“ Mamma, perhaps you do not know, but I brought home three 
trunks full of nice dresses and things,” said Sybil. 

“ Oh ! yes, dear, I know ; but what does very well for a convent 
will not answer for you here at all.” 

“-Don’t turn her into a butterfly, Anne,” said Mrs. Waite, with a 
foreboding heart. 

“ Young people should all be turned to butterflies,” said Mrs. 
Weston, laughing. “God made butterflies, didn’t He? and the 
butterfly stage is the time for enjoyment ; cares and clouds will come 
soon enough.” 

“Very well; Sybil, when your wings expand, darling, remember 
that butterflies symbol immortality,” said Mrs. Waite. 

“I won’t have Sybil preached to, Louise; she is good enough, 
and already inclined to all sorts of religious extravagance, without 
being kept in mind of it. Bless my heart! you wouldn’t have her 
carry a death’s-head about with her, would you ? ” 

“ No. Our Blessed Lady, to whom she was dedicated at her birth, 
will protect her without the help of a death’s-head.” 

“ Good-bye, my dear deaconess. Come, Sybil, or your aunt will 
give me the hysterics — oh, I forgot ! — here’s the money for that 
miserable old creature’s rent.” 

“ Anne, if you would only see for yourself some of the miseries 
that your generosity relieves, it would give you a truer understand- 
ing of the use of life.” 

“It would give me the horrors ; it makes me sick even to hear of 


TANGLED PA THS. 


IOI 


them ; and I don’t think it is required of me to see them, if I help 
them with money,” said she, flushing. “ You don’t mind that sort of 
thing, and I’m glad you don’t. Good-bye until to-morrow, when I 
shall expect you all, to spend the day.” 

“And Natalie?” 

“ Natalie, of course. I delight in Natalie as much as I do in a 
German novel. Ta-ta now. Come, Sybil.” 

A quick glance of loving intelligence passed between Sybil and 
her aunt as they embraced, by which they understood each other, 
and in which sympathy in the communion of one faith was expressed. 
Mrs. Weston did not notice it, nor would she have understood it if 
she had ; for all that was on the surface she had a keen, observant 
eye, but the signs of a deeper inner life were so many unmeaning 
blanks to her. It was one of the rules, of her life never to offend if 
by any means it could be avoided, but there was an iron will under 
the velvet of her pleasant ways which in her intercourse with others 
she made felt when occasion required it, and it was known that she 
had never failed of having her own way in great as well as small 
affairs, in the social world and in her own domestic kingdom. 

Like any other novice, Sybil was interested and amused by the 
gay throng of life she saw on the business streets through which 
they now drove ; and this being her first experience in shopping, 
the magnificence of the fine and costly fabrics displayed on the 
counters where Mrs. Weston dealt gratified her taste for the beauti- 
ful, while the prodigious prices charged for scraps of lace in the 
shape of handkerchiefs and other trifles, shocked as well as amazed 
her ; and finally she was made almost breathless by a purchase of 
pointe - lace flounces costing five hundred dollars, which Mrs. Wes- 
ton told her were for her. In her happy ignorance of the world, 
Sybil felt that she would be guilty of mortal sin if she permitted so 
much money to be spent on an article of finery for her which she 
could do without, when there were so many destitute persons, in 
this very city, perhaps, who were suffering for food and raiment, 
whose needs this large sum would relieve. Almost afraid, flushed 
and earnest, she laid her hand on her step-mother’s arm. 

“ Oh, mamma, pray don’t buy the lace for me ; it is too costly 
indeed, and -—” 


102 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ 1 have purchased it, dear ; you must allow me to select for you, 
until you are somewhat more experienced,” said Mrs. Weston, 
coldly. What she would have said had Sybil told her — as was her 
intention, had she not interrupted her — that she would be far hap- 
pier to have a portion of the money thus prodigally spent to dis- 
tribute among the poor, is more than I can imagine. There was 
nothing left now for her to do but to look on, and wait until the 
last purchase was made, and the last order given. 

“I am so afraid,” thought Sybil, “ that my father will be displeased 
with me for such waste of money ; for how will he know it is not 
my fault ? ” 

But she had no time to be miserable over it, for Mrs. Weston 
now hurried her off to a fashionable fur-store, to buy a set of ermine 
that she had examined a few days before — “ the dearest love of a 
thing, and very rare and expensive ; it will just suit your style, 
Sybil, and I mean to buy it for you if the man hasn't sold it,” was 
what she said as they walked the short distance between the two 
establishments. The ermine had not been sold, and Mrs. Weston 
bought it ; then away to the French dressmaker’s, where two long 
hours were spent in consultation over the styles of the young debu- 
tantes dresses — visiting dresses, home toilet, dinner dresses, opera 
wraps, and costumes du bal . 

Poor Sybil’s head was nearly dazed ; she was measured, she was 
turned to the right and to the left, her style of form and face was ar- 
tistically studied, all interspersed with such high-flown compliments 
to her beauty, her air, her grace, that her cheeks glowed with mortifi- 
cation, and she could only remain silent while it was going on, her 
humility as well as her innate good taste wounded by such vapid flat- 
teries — not understanding then that they were only part and parcel 
of the woman’s trade, and had contributed no little to her great suc- 
cess. It was drearily tiresome ; but it was over at last, and they went 
home. Mrs. Weston did not forget the bon-bons she had promised 
the young folk, and sent them in by the footman as they drove bv 
Mrs. Waite’s door, giving him orders to walk home, such was the 
hurry to be back to rest, lunch, and be dressed in time for dinner. 
Sybil had never felt so tired in all her life — not so much from actual 
fatigue as by the novel excitement and the anticipations of new and 


TANGLED PATHS. 


103 


untried things that kept looming up in her fancy, growing out of it, 
and she was thankful indeed for the quiet of her own room, where, 
in the presence of the holy image of Mary, the disquiet of worldly 
cares ebbed gently away. 

That evening Sybil met her father at dinner ; her impulse was 
to fly to him when he came in, ask him how he was, and show the 
affection with which her heart was overflowing — but he scarcely 
noticed her presence except by a glance ; he looked pale and grave, 
and took his seat at the table in silence ; and she, chilled and re- 
pelled, sat down at the place indicated by Peter, with a courtly wave 
of his hand, as he drew out her chair. Her step-mother was evi- 
dently fatigued, and said but little, and in the most formal tones. 

Mr. Weston looked up once, and the expression of Sybil’s face 
smote him ; he had never, through fault of his, called a shadow of 
sadness like that into her mother’s, he was thankful to remember ; 
and he did not like to see it on that of her child, being a little con- 
scious of his coldness toward her. 

“ And so,” he said, with an effort — not knowing how else to be- 
gin — “ you have been shopping to-day, Sybil ? I suppose you en- 
joyed it ? ” 

“ I saw a great many beautiful things, sir,” she answered, looking 
up from her plate. 

“ And made money fly, I suppose ! ” He meant this as a 
pleasantry, but he looked grim enough, not knowing how to look 
otherwise. 

“ I am afraid so, sir,” she said timidly, again looking down, 
afraid to add another word lest she should bring blame on her step- 
mother. 

“ Sybil is the greatest rustic I ever saw, and I’m really afraid she’s 
close-fisted ! ” said Mrs. Weston, laughing. “ Do you know, I be- 
lieve she thought I was running you into bankruptcy, and that you 
would be in a rage at what she imagined was our extravagance.” 

“ I think I am able to bear a little strain of that sort,” said Mr. 
Weston, with his cold smile ; “ so do not make yourself unhappy, 
Sybil. I am a rich man, and I expect my daughter to appear in a 
manner that will do honor to my position. You will see that I did 
not forget you to-day,” he added, drawing a morocco case from his 


104 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


breast-pocket, and pushing it toward her. “ I hope you will like 
the trifles.” 

“ Oh, dear father ! ” she exclaimed, as she opened the case, 
“how beautiful ! How kind of you to think of me ! They are 
lovely ! Look, mamma ! ” 

Lovely indeed was the full parure of rare pearls, each piece with 
a forget-me-not composed of sapphires in the center that lay glis- 
tening in the pale rose-tinted cushion of the casket. 

“ I thought they would suit a young girl better than diamonds. 
I don’t like flash of any sort about young girls ; but perhaps I have 
made a mistake, Anne,” he said, appealing to his wife ; “ I am not 
accustomed to this sort of diing, you know ! ’ 

“No, indeed; your selection is comme il fant; perfectly so. I 
agree with you about the diamonds ; such ornaments are only suit- 
able to maturity,” answered Mrs. Weston in tones somewhat cold 
and constrained, as she examined the jewels, remembering that 
never once, since she had known Mr. Weston, had he ever pre- 
sented her with a token of affection ; but she had passed the time 
for sentimentality, and she strangled this little jealous pang by the 
recollection of having always had the privilege of choosing for her- 
self whatever she wanted, for which he had always ungrudgingly 
paid. 

“ I don’t know how to thank you, papa,” said Sybil, following her 
father, as he crossed the hall to go to the library, to enjoy his after- 
dinner nap, and shyly taking his hand, which she bent over and 
kissed.' 

“ Tush, child ! it’s nothing. Be as happy as you can ; I want 
you to make yourself happy here. There ! there ! ” he answered, 
freeing his hand, and never looking into her face, for fear his cour- 
age would give way and he would catch her to his breast and weep 
aloud over her. Sybil did not suspect a state of feeling like this 
under that cold exterior ; if she had — ah ! if any of us only knew 
the motives that stir the hearts even of those who sometimes pain 
us — what pity would she not have felt, instead of repulse ! But she 
did not know, and while involuntary tears filled her eyes, she 
thought, as the sound of his footsteps receded : “ My father does 
not know me ; how should he ? But I will be patient ; I will wait 


TANGLED PA THS. 


105 


and watch for his love, and pray and hope for his conversion ; 
both may come at last.” For the latter she had prayed all 
her life. 

“ Sybil ! Sybil ! ” cried Edyth, from the head of the staircase. 
“ Come up, and take me to your room, won’t you ?” 

“ Come down, little sister; I haven’t seen you all day ! ” said 
Sybil, turning her face, brightened with smiles, toward Edyth. 

“ I can’t. I am not allowed,” she answered, with a pout. 

“ I am very sorry ; what is the matter ? ” 

“ Miss Arnold’s cross and — and — I didn’t know my French 
verbs.” 

Sybil went up to her, kissed her flushed cheek, and comforted 
her by telling her that French verbs were tough things to manage. 

“ I just hate French ! It’s gabble ; and I don’t see any sense in 
it ! ” she exploded, wrathfully. 

“ You won’t think so by and by ; but will you take me to Miss 
Arnold and introduce me ; I want to get acquainted with every- 
body ?” 

“No. Nobody cafes for Miss Arnold ; she’s a hateful, -horrid 
old thing ! She’s no better than a servant, and not half as nice as 
Bab—” 

“ Miss Edyth, where are you ? Did I not order you to remain 
in the school-room ? ” were the words uttered in a shrill, sharp 
voice, just behind Sybil, who, startled by the interruption, turned 
and saw a small, angular, sharp-featured woman, who was dressed 
in brown merino that was glossy from constant wear, with a flam- 
ing red bow at her collar, great gold hoops in her ears, and a rusty 
black lace cap, ornamented with a crimson rose, perched on the 
top of her gray head — all faded : she, her dress, the rose, and her 
very eyes. 

“ I beg your pardon, Miss,” she said, making a quaint little courtesy 
to Sybil, without expecting the least civility in return, not only because 
she was not accustomed to it, but because she had heard what 
Edyth had just said of her — cruel word^ even to one accustomed 
to neglect and isolation as she was. 

“ Excuse me, please ; but are you Miss Arnold ? I am Sybil 
Weston. I came home only last night, and I was just asking my 
5 * 


io6 


TANGLED PA THS. 


little sister to bring me to see you,” said Sybil, holding out her hand, 
which the other barely touched with her cold, limp fingers. 

“And I wouldn’t,” said Edyth, rudely. 

Two red spots flamed on Miss Arnold’s cheek-bones — and making 
a clutch at Edyth’s hand, she was about leading her back to the 
school-room, but she grasped Sybil’s dress and would not let go, 
exclaiming : “ I won’t ! I won’t ! ” 

“ Oh, Edyth ! don’t, dear ! You are very rude to Miss Arnold. 
Tell her this moment you are sorry, or I will leave you here, and be 
very much displeased,” said Sybil, her spirit roused by the scene. 

“ I wouldn’t — no, not to save her life !” said Edyth furiously. 

“ She’s always like this, Miss Weston,” said Miss Arnold, her 
own voice quivering with passion, while the rose in her cap and her 
wiry gray curls trembled, vibratory, almost dancing, which would 
have been grotesque had it not been so sad. 

“ I am so sorry, Miss Arnold — let go my dress instantly, Edyth. 
I will not let you come with me. May I come to see you some- 
times, Miss Arnold ? ” 

“To see me ? If you wish to, Miss Weston ; but nobody ever 
comes : why should you ? ” 

“ Because I want to get acquainted with everybody ; and I’m 
coming if you’ll let me,” answered Sybil pleasantly. 

“ I’ll tell mamma ; just see if I don’t,” said Edyth, in an insolent 
tone. 

“ You will not come often, Miss Weston ; but come if you wish 
to, and if Mrs. Weston does not object,” replied Miss Arnold, lead- 
ing Edyth away, who, finding resistance unavailing, sobbed angrily. 

What a strange world was this into which Sybil had come ! Her 
heart was troubled by the contact she had experienced, ever since 
her arrival home, with natures so unlike her own, and so antithetical 
to all her past associations. She met a servant, and asked her way 
to the nursery, thinking to have a chat with old Barbara ; but she 
was not there, and she went to her own room, where only a cheerful 
fire lit the dusk, and flickered in golden shadows over the niche 
where smiled the type of all purity, the Virgin Mother and her 
Divine Babe. 

“ Ah, how restful to be here ! ” said Sybil, folding her hands, as 


TANGLED PA THS. 


107 


she stood before the spot consecrated by her devotion to the Holy 
Mother of God ; “ how sweet to feel my heart growing calm at last 
after this long, strange day ! ” 

Then she ’drew out her rosary, and knelt down to recite it. It 
had, indeed, beetf a day unlike any she had ever known. No Mass, 
no studies, no little acts of devotion, no innocent hilarious hours of 
recreation, no sweet-faced nuns passing to and fro, no mellow organ- 
tones, with the sound of voices chanting the Litany in harmonious 
accord when the evening shadows fell ; but pain at every step, 
wherever she turned, except in the brief interval she had spent at 
her aunt’s. Pain ? you ask. Yes, the pain of her father’s coldness; 
the pain of feeling herself to be the object of worldly preparations 
and wasteful extravagance ; and the pain of having witnessed in the 
dear little sister, whom she had taken to her heart at once, such an 
exhibition of repulsive human passions ! She felt that it had been a 
lost day, forgetting that the submission of one’s will in trials that goad 
us, if borne in a proper spirit, is a meritorious discipline for the 
soul. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“ Did I understand you that my sister and the children are to 
spend the day with Sybil ? ” 

Mrs. Weston had not yet risen ; indeed she was scarcely awake ; 
but, half supported by her elbow, she was sipping the cup of coffee 
her maid had just brought in, when Mr. Weston, who w r as ready for 
his early breakfast, came out of his dressing-room, instead of going 
down-stairs by the other door, as he usually did, to ask her this. 

“ Yes. It had to be done ; and the sooner the better, I thought,” 
was the ungracious reply. 

“ And why so, may I ask ? My sister and her children are al- 
ways welcome, I hope, in my house,” he said, in his grave, cold 
tones. 

“ Oh, dear me ! I am hardly awake yet ! Of course they are ; 
and there’s no need to talk so absurdly. Though, to be frank, I 
am not fond of boys’ company — such noisy, boisterous creatures.’/ 

“I am sorry that you will be incommoded, Anne, but I stepped 
in to say that the children must have the freedom of the house to- 
day. Let them romp round and enjoy themselves ; there’s plenty 
of room for them. If they upset things and make a litter, let the 
servants see to it ; and if they smash up any of your bric-a-brac 
nonsense, I will repair all damages. They do not come often ; and 
when they do, I wish them to be happy.” This was a great deal 
for this usually silent man to say at once, and it showed that he had 
been thinking the matter over, and meant to have things his own 
way. 

“ It is not a pleasant thing in prospect to have company who can 
only be happy under such conditions, in a house like this ; but of 
course your will is law, Mr. Weston.” 

“ Send the carriage for them. I will call and tell them to be ready 
(108) 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


iog 

at eleven o’clock,” was all that Mr. Weston said, as he turned and 
walked out of the room. 

Mrs. Weston touched her call-bell ; sent her coffee away, scarcely 
tasted, when her maid appeared ; ordered the room to be darkened ; 
then with a languid sigh leaned her head back upon her pillows, to 
think over the situation. Any one would have supposed that her 
highest interests were at stake, to behold her, while she was mak- 
ing up her mind as to the best way of meeting the expected inva- 
sion. It was an exigency that would require tact and good grace 
on her part ; she determined, however, that while she would not 
omit the necessary effort to put her guests on the required footing 
as suggested by her husband, she would escape the worst of it by 
flight, under pretense of being obliged to see the “ butcher and ba- 
ker, and candlestick-maker,” on business, and the modiste, to give 
her some new instructions about her step-daughter’s dresses — which 
would consume at least three hours, and give her something to look 
forward to amidst her coming vexations. 

Donald was sent to Mrs. Waite’s at the appointed time; every 
one was ready, and there was no delay in filling the carriage, which 
was a little crowded, but that only added to the fun ; the door was 
banged to by the footman, the horses pranced off with a grand air; 
and the children, their bright ruddy faces filling each window, did 
not fail in the exuberance of their delight to give a smile and nod 
to every living soul they knew and happened to meet on the way. 
A whole holiday, with unlimited prospects of enjoyment ahead, was 
not an every-day affair, and they had a vague idea that everybody 
else was as glad of it as themselves. 

Sybil and Edyth were in the hall, awaiting their arrival ; and there 
were embraces, hand-shaking, outbursts of glee and merry shouts 
of laughter that filled the stately, silent house with unwonted echoes. 
Mrs. Weston, who was just finishing her breakfast, came forward to 
meet and welcome them just as the youngsters made a rush across 
the hall toward the drawing-room, propelling John’s wheeled chair 
with such velocity that they could scarcely stop it in time to avoid 
running their aunt down. 

“We were just fetching John to see you, Aunt Weston,” said 
Baste, a little dismayed. “ Mamma sent the chair before we started, 


no 


TANGLED PATHS. 


and it was all ready, waiting in the hall, when we got here ; so we 
fixed the old fellow on his cushions, and he was coming to make his 
bow, you know.” 

“ I know, and thank you, John ; how do you do ? How do you 
all do ? I am very glad to see you all ; but you must be careful 
over these slippery floors. My dear Louise, how kind of you to 
come ! ” said Mrs. Weston, embracing her sister-in-law ; “ and 
Mademoiselle Natalie,” she added, as she offered her the tips of 
her fingers, which Natalie barely touched, as in courtesy bound — 
and, as Mrs. Weston thought, with a very proper absence of famili- 
arity, which proved that she knew her place ; so little can people un- 
derstand the motif by what appears on the surface. She told the 
boys that they “ were to enjoy themselves, and that John was to 
be rolled wherever he wished to go — that Edyth and Clara were to 
have a free holiday to amuse themselves as they pleased — and that 
Sybil could remain with her aunt and herself, or with them, which- 
ever way they might settle it ; ” and they elected by acclamation 
their claim to her, and their will to have her with them. 

“ I’ll make a bargain with you,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling — al 
though nearly deafened — “you shall have Sybil until after luncheon ; 
then, as I am obliged to run away for a little while to attend to some 
business affairs, she will do the honors in my absence, and take care 
of you, dear Louise, until I return. You can have a nice long talk 
together in Sybil’s own room, where you can shut out ‘all the world 
beside,’ especially the little pitchers, with big ears.” 

“ Give yourself no concern about us, Anne ; I know you are a 
woman of many cares, and it is rather late in the day to begin mak- 
ing a stranger of me,” said Mrs. Waite; “but indeed I must re- 
monstrate against your giving my boys such unlimited freedom to 
do as they please ; they are not accustomed to playing round where 
any particular care is necessary, and they’ll be sure to forget, and do 
some accidental mischief.” 

“Never mind if they do. I suppose Mademoiselle Natalie will 
stay with them ; and so they don’t upset my marble Phryne there, 
and break my mirrors, I don’t care. Come, let us run off from 
these young Berserkers ; I want to show you some of the pretty 
things I have purchased for Sybil,” said Mrs. Weston, taking Mrs. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Ill 


Waite’s arm, and leading her away, wishing in her inmost heart that 
she had a prairie at hand into which she might turn the healthy, 
riotous invaders of the quiet of her elegant home, where they might 
shout, prance, tumble, and gallop to their heart’s content, without 
doing mischief. The young Waites, who had never had the least 
experience of the shallowness and insincerity of worldlings, accepted 
their aunt’s expressions in simple good faith, as the immediate 
scamper and uproar they forthwith plunged into testified ; their un- 
restrained shouts of laughter, and the rapid rumbling sound of 
John’s wheeled chair over the polished floors where they were not 
covered by soft Persian mats, rising in a confused din that set her 
teeth on edge and made her wish the day was over. 

But once in her own apartment, with the doors closed to deaden 
the noise from below, she recovered her almost lost composure ; 
and in the truly feminine delight she enjoyed in spreading out and 
expatiating on some of her purchases of the day before, she forgot 
for the time being, the cause of irritation. 

Mrs. Waite admired the rare filmy laces, and other costly articles 
that are considered indispensable in the make-up of a fashionable 
toilette ; they were beautiful, and as the results of ingenious in- 
dustries and patient toil that gave bread to the children of poverty, 
they were extremely interesting to her ; but the thought of the van- 
ity fostered by their possession, the immense sums swallowed up to 
obtain them, and the sin and shame that the desire to have them 
too often originates, passed through her mind, the pleasure kindled 
by the sight of them faded out of her face — and Mrs. Weston, who 
was quick to notice the change, imagined that her sister-in-law was 
either without taste, or that she was blaming her in her heart for 
wasting money on such trifles. 

“ I know exactly what you are thinking about, Louise,” said 'Mrs. 
Weston, with a good-natured laugh ; “ but you must recollect that 
but for the extravagance of the wealthy, the people who make these 
beautiful things would starve.” 

“ Those who make them manage just not to starve on the prices 
they receive for producing such marvelous fabrics by the patient 
labor of their hands. A few sous a day for such work as this ! ” 
said Mrs. Waite, holding up against the light a point e-aplique over- 


1 12 


TANGLED PA THS. 


skirt, “ the sum total, when completed, from fifty to a hundred 
francs, for the labor of many months ; the employers sell it for 
eight hundred, and by the time it reaches our market it is valued at 
' hundreds of dollars in our currency, each dollar representing five 
francs of theirs. If the wealthy purchased from the toilers them- 
selves, their extravagance would assume the dignity of a virtue ; 
but as it is now, it simply enlarges the power of monopolies, and 
the opportunities for employers to oppress and grind the faces of 
the poor ; while they grow rich on the necessities and the hard- 
wrung labor of their employes.” 

“ My dear Louise, I know nothing on earth about the value of 
labor, and couldn’t set the world right if I did. I buy things that 
I like, without going into all sorts of disagreeable analysis about 
the how, and the why, and the wherefore of their production. I 
take things as I find them, and put sentimentality out of the ques- 
tion. I confess I would rather pay the fiaysan who fabricates these 
wonderful laces, than buy them here where I know that I pay a fic- 
titious value for them ; but what can I do ? Simply nothing.” 

“ Do not buy them ; give their price to the suffering and desti- 
tute, who are willing to work if they have the opportunity to do so,” 
said Mrs. Waite, with a sweet, grave smile. 

“ And go without laces ! I declare, Louise, you must be moon- 
struck ! Why, your own brother says — and I don’t suppose you’ll 
question his judgment — that the revenues of the Government would 
fall off millions, and it would end in a general bankruptcy, if it were 
not for the importation of luxuries,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston, open- 
ing her eyes and emphasizing her words as if her argument was 
unanswerable. 

“ That’s business-logic, at any rate ; but I wonder if my brother 
ever considered that poverty without honest toil, and the neglect to 
provide work suitable to their age and condition — for the children 
of the poorer classes, turn loose in every community a class who, in 
the aggregate results, cost the country ten times as much as some 
wise provision to secure them the means of living by their own labor 
would do ? It is this neglect and indifference that provides and fos- 
ters the material for public disturbances, bloody revolutions, and 
even pestilence itself,” said Mrs. Waite, who had often discussed 


TANGLED PA THS. 


113 


these grave subjects with her husband, who used to call all public 
evils that grew out of imperfect legislation combined with indiffer- 
ence on the part of those whose duty it is to agitate causes and 
correct evils, “ Frankenstein’s Man,” a monster created by the au- 
dacious experiments of a student, who, by unholy spells, occult 
sciences, and the application of secrets torn from the very grave, 
succeeded in fashioning and endowing with life a creature who was 
a curse wherever he appeared ; who stalked the earth, carrying dis- 
may, horror, and crime with him. Mrs. Waite had not the slightest 
purpose, when she came up-stairs with her sister-in-law, of getting 
into so serious a discussion as the present, but they were both so an- 
tagonistic, in every respect, to each other — one devoted to worldli- 
ness, and of the ‘ earth, earthy,’ so that her very blood was tinctured 
with the venom of its precepts — the other, placing God above all, 
and living on a more elevated plane, with a supernatural motif to 
guide and govern her in all her acts — that it is not strange, having 
really nothing in common, they should disagree whenever a principle 
was at issue. 

“ How very uncomfortable you must be all the time, Louise, 
bothering your brain over things that you can no more help 
than I can ! I’m very thankful I don’t take things to heart as 
you do.” 

“ No ; we can’t remove the evils referred to,” replied Mrs. 
Waite, with a quick, suppressed sigh ; “ but let us, in God’s name, 
do the little we can to avert them. For instance, the next time you 
are tempted to pay a hundred dollars for a lace pocket-handker- 
chief, consider how many sick and shivering human beings that 
money would buy fuel for ; how many hearts would be gladdened 
by the price of a thing that scarcely covers your hand ! And then, 
dear Anne — pardon me, for I do not mean to be officious — do not, 
I beg of you, for our dear Lord’s sake ! foster, by a too indulgent 
desire to make Sybil happy, the pride and vanity that is latent in 
every human heart. She is all untried in the world and its ways, 
and will, I dread, be vulnerable to the temptations that will beset 
her ; do not urge her beyond her strength into the glare and dazzle 
and bewilderments of fashionable life.” 

“ Louise, listen to what I have to say about Sybil — it might as 


TANGLED PA THS. 


1 14 

well be said first as last, to prevent all future misunderstanding, ” 
said Mrs. Weston, all the pleasant expression gone out of her face, 
and a hard, determined look in every line of it. “ You know / am 
not answerable for Sybil’s position as a rich man’s daughter ; that is 
an arrangement of Providence ; nor am I responsible for the very 
natural fact that her father wishes her to make her debut into society 
in a manner*creditable to his business and social standing ; but hav- 
ing intrusted me with his wishes on this point, I shall perform the 
duty to the very best of my ability, according to the acknowledged 
laws of society; and Sybil’s piety must undergo the test. I sup- 
pose that worldliness is a disease more hurtful to some than to 
others, as most maladies are ; but she’ll have to run the risk, and I 
can’t help it. As to the lace handkerchief, I don’t happen to want 
one at present ; but if you hear of any poor persons wanting fuel, I’ll 
be glad to send money to buy it for them. I like to give ; in fact, 
I’m never happier than when I am giving something or other away, 
particularly old rubbish that I have no use for.” 

Not a supernatural motif certainly, but one of temperament and 
egotism combined ; but as it was the means of affording relief very 
often where it was much needed, and winning the prayers of the 
grateful poor for Mrs. Weston, it might, after a season, blossom into 
that animus which governs every act for the love of God. 

“ Yes, Sybil must pass through the ordeal. I see there’s no help 
for it,” said Mrs. Waite, sadly ; “ only you can prevent her being 
urged beyond her strength, Anne ; and I shall trust to you to do 
it. Thanks for your promise about the fuel, and I pray God that 
you may at last be generous to yourself.” 

“ You need never expect to see me a crusader against estab- 
lished customs, or a saint. Saintliness is not in my bones. I am 
satisfied to enjoy the good things of this life, and be like other 
people — no better, no worse. Some people’s ideas of goodness are 
to stuff up their nostrils to avoid the perfume of flowers ; others 
shut their eyes for mortification when the sun shines ; some who are 
blessed with good health must needs put on hair-shirts to torment 
their bodies ! I could no more pray while my flesh was being 
scratched in such a way than I could fly.” 

“All are not called to the practice of such austerities; but 


TANGLED PA T//S. 


115 

blessed are they who, having the grace, are courageous enough to 
deny themselves all things for the love of God, and make war 
against every human passion that sets their flesh in revolt against 
Him. It is but few who are willing to become abject for the love 
of God, but it is glorious to think of the final triumph that crowns 
them when the dust that perishes crumbles away and sets free the 
spirit for whose eternal gain it was made to suffer.” 

“ My dearest Louise, I fear that I am not spiritual-minded,” said 
Mrs. Weston, laughing. “ I really do not understand such matters, 
and shudder at the very thought of things that could not fail to make 
me miserable. Some of these days age will cripple me up, make 
me toothless, wrinkled, and blind, then I shall have nothing to do 
except to be devot. What’s the use, then, of anticipating ? In fact, 
I think it’s a sort of suicide to live upon pillars, and in caves — and 
starve and flagellate one’s self to the last extremity.” 

We see how far Mrs. Weston, although a Catholic, was astray 
from the true meaning of a spiritual life ; one of those Catholics who 
profess the faith, yet obey the world and its maxims in preference to 
its divine precepts. But she was tired of the grave themes that had 
somehow kept recurring in the conversation between her sister-in- 
law and herself this morning, and determined, if she could, to put an 
end to it. Turning over some fineries that were heaped up on a 
lounge, she drew out a mY-blue silk and lace pannier, then a superb 
sash embroidered in the daintiest patterns of wild roses and morn- 
ing-glories on a ground of delicate blue, and held them up for Mrs. 
Waite’s inspection. 

“I quite forget to show you these,” she said. 44 Aren't they 
beautiful ? And, oh ! don’t fail to remind Sybil to show you the 
magnificent parure of pearls her father has given her. And I tell 
you, my dear Louise, once for all, that her father and I will be 
seriously displeased and hurt if you go to preaching to Sybil about 
the sinfulness of the world, and all that ; for it will make her miser- 
able, and make it very unpleasant, up-hill work for me.” 

“ I shall not interfere, Anne. But of one thing be sure : if Sybil 
ever comes to me for counsel and advice, whatever the conse- 
quences may be to myself, I shall not fail to give it.” 

“ I hope I may be considered equal to the care devolved upon 


1 16 


TANGLED PA THS. 


me. Sybil shall suffer nothing from any neglect of mine,” said Mrs. 
Weston, stiffly. 

“ I do not for a moment doubt the kindness of your intentions 
toward Sybil, my dear Anne ; but she may find herself occasionally 
in straits in which I may be able to help her, without in the least 
interfering with yourself or your plans. She will be exposed to 
great temptations, you know ! ” 

There it was again, the ceil-bhie silk and embroidered sash not- 
withstanding ! 

“ Well ! I hope her piety is of that wholesome sort that will be 
able to resist them, as I said before ; for she has to make her plunge 
into the world, sink or swim',” said Mrs. Weston, with a sharp little 
laugh that had a meaning in it entirely obscure to Mrs. Waite’s 
frank, pure mind. “ But do for mercy’s sake let us talk about 
something else ; you know we don’t agree in our views, and I hate 
to be reminded of what a dreadful sinner I am.” 

“ I should be pained to think I ever left that impression.” 

“Yes, you do — always — and it makes me very uncomfortable, 
knowing that you are so very pious and I not — ” replied Mrs. Wes- 
ton, again laughing, this time to sheathe the sarcasm of her words. 

Mrs. Waite felt stung; she had been purposely misunderstood, 
and set in a self-righteous light, a thing which her humility shrunk 
from most sensitively ; her sister-in-law either did not or would not 
understand her. But she made no reply ; it was time for silence, 
lest anger should usurp the place of forbearance ; then, in a moment 
or so, feeling that she “possessed her soul in patience,” she made 
some inquiries about her brother’s health — having noticed, when he 
had called, that he looked pale — which at once led to other subjects, 
of which he was the theme and complaint; “he was killing himself” 
— “he was slaving himself to death” — “he thought of nothing but 
making money, until he could talk of nothing except all the stupid 
topics that are connected with it ” — were the expressions that dropped 
glibly from the tongue of this woman who had failed to consecrate 
her husband’s home by the exercise of those virtues which would 
have made it the one center of attraction and rest to him, and the 
stepping-stone to a better life. 

Natalie’s first thought on awaking that morning had been of the holi- 


TANGLED PATHS. 


II 7 

day they were all to have that day; and the anticipation of seeing Edyth, 
and again meeting Sybil, rippled her heart with a sensation that she 
thought was long ago dead ; for, contrary \o her usual habit, led by 
some impulse she could not herself define, she was going to Mrs. 
Weston’s with them ; and to know that Mrs. Waite and her pupils 
were so really pleased to have her go, gave added zest to her enjoy- 
ment. 

“ After all,” she said — communing with herself in the solitude of 
her own room — “ is it so that peace will come ? But only like 
glimpses of blue, sunlit sky between the black storm-clouds. No! 
no ! It is impossible ! Memory must first be destroyed. Oh life, 
whence art thou, with all thy strange, mysterious agonies ! and only 
annihilation in the end ! Hold firm, Natalie, and wait, for there is 
at least a destiny.” 

It was the cry of a soul that endured the passion of life without a 
hope beyond its prison-house ! 

But soon the merry voices of the children filled the house; there 
was running up and down, and finally a tap on her door, which she 
opened, and found Baste, Clara, and Con waiting for her^npatient 
for her. to come, that they might all be ready to start the moment 
the carriage came for them at eleven, and it was now just a few min- 
utes past eight ; so unreasonable are children as to time. 

After the first welcome and excitement on their arrival at their 
Uncle Weston’s — when the children had made wide circling explor- 
ations, John’s chair always in the thick of the fun, and chased each 
other with interludes of tumbling heels-over-head over a “ brioche ” 
here, a tabouret there, or slipping as on ice over the polished floors, 
their heads coming down with a resounding thump — which catas- 
trophe excited shouts of laughter — and they were at last turned loose 
in the ball-room, where there was clear space, and a wider area for 
their fun ; Natalie found herself alone in one of the superb rooms, 
where she had lingered a moment to examine a sea-view on the 
Baltic, which had attracted her attention in passing. She did not 
notice the sudden silence caused by the children’s going away; for 
the scene around her, the pictures, statuary, the subdued light, the 
rich furniture, was weaving a spell of other days around her that 
made her feel as in a far-away dream, wandering through magnificent 


1 1 8 


TANGLED PA THS. 


apartments decorated with gems of art, where tropical plants rich 
with spicy blooms, in great vases of malachite and lapis-lazuli , stood 
in every nook and corner — where, in niches sparkling with precious 
stones, scented tapers burned in golden lamps before some old By- 
zantine painting of the Holy Mother of Jesus and favorite saints of 
the Greek Church. Very still and white, Natalie stood half leaning 
against a pillar, her eyes looking far away beyond the present, when 
a soft touch upon her hand aroused her. It was Sybil. 

“ I have left them all with my old black maummy, playing circus in 
the ball-room, and want you to come and pay a visit with me to Miss 
Arnold, if you will, Natalie,” said the girl, shyly. 

“With pleasure. I have* met Miss Arnold sometimes.” 

“ Thank you for coming. I have some violets for her — quite a 
handful ; and a double-hyacinth for you ; see, it is the exact color 
of an ocean shell.” 

“ My favorite flower — one of the few that has sentiment and life 
in it,” said Natalie, as she held the beautiful, rose-tinted, pendent 
flowers a moment against her cheek. 

“ Whai-is the sentiment ? I want to know, because I have 
strange thoughts about flowers.” 

“ Oh, I can not exactly define ; perhaps some day when you 
know better what life is, I will tell you ; it would to your ears sound, 
now, like — what do you call Baste’ s word? hi — hi — aye, now I have 
it — hifalutin ! ” 

“But I’m sure that you love flowers ; and if you will allow me, I 
shall be so glad to bring you some, whenever I come to my aunt’s.” 

“Flowers make me not happy; they mean too much; but if it 
pleases you, I will accept them, with thanks,” was the quiet reply. 

Sybil tapped at Miss Arnold’s door ; a sharp voice bade them 
enter, and when the little woman saw who her visitors were, she im- 
mediately got into a nervous fidget that set her six little gray curls, 
the crumpled flowers in her cap, her ribbon-ends and fringes, in an 
animated quiver. She was dusting two small cabinet portraits that 
she had taken down from the wall — of a gentleman and a lady ; he 
a long-faced, sad-visaged man, in parson’s coat and bands ; she, 
small and plain, with tawny hair and patient countenance. She laid 
them upon her bed, and shook hands with her visitors. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


119 

“ Don’t let us interrupt you, Miss Arnold. I came to fetch you 
some violets. I thought you’d like them, as they are the first of the 
season.” 

“ Me ! violets ! it seems strange for any one to remember me so ! ” 
she said, her astonishment evincing plainly the rarity of kindly at- 
tentions. Then she fluttered around and found a quaint old china 
toy that Edyth had thrown aside and forgotten, which she filled with 
water, and put the violets in it, touching them delicately and tremu- 
lously as *if their fragrance had stirred her lonely life with old 
memories. 

“ I was dusting papa’s and mamma’s portraits when you rapped,” 
she went on to say, after she had set the violets on the mantel-piece, 
“and I’m afraid the dust is flying yet. It is so strange that you 
should have brought me violets just at the very minute I was look- 
ing at papa, for it is the anniversary of his death, and they were his 
favorite flowers. I remember he always had a few on his study- 
table when they were in season ; ” and Miss Arnold wiped a thin, 
pathetic little tear from her eyes, with the corner of a clean hand- 
kerchief. 

“ I am glad I thought of them ; the gardener will send them from 
Westover every day now, and you shall have some whenever you 
want them. Whose picture is that above the mantel, Miss Arnold ? ” 
asked Sybil, anxious to talk about what she imagined would most 
interest the forlorn woman. 

“ That ! that — at least — well ! no matter about the name ; he was 
papa’s curate when I was just grown up ; he was very good, and 
papa thought highly of him.” 

“Did he die?” 

“ Oh, no ; he is living yet. He succeeded papa in the living, and 
married a very rich Manchester shopkeeper’s widow,” was the reply, 
while a crimson spot flamed on each of her prominent cheek-bones. 
“ I only — well — I keep the picture, not because I care for it myself, 
but he was a friend of papa’s, and it reminds me of old times. No ! 
he’s a dean now,” she added, with a little nervous laugh. 

“Another broken life,” thought Natalie, who had been regarding 
Miss Arnold with strange interest. 

“I am glad you have his picture, Miss Arnold Won’t you let 


120 


TANGLED PATHS. 


me come some evenings, after Edyth goes to bed, and hear about 
your 4 old times ? ’ ” 

“You! oh, no ! you will have no time to spare, Miss Weston ; 
you don’t know; and then if you had, and I should tell you about 
?ny old times, you’d only laugh at them ; and I could not bear that 
they should be ridiculed, for they are all I have, you know ! ” 

“ We will know each other better by and by, Miss Arnold,” said 
Sybil, feeling a little uncomfortable. 

But Natalie, with her keen perceptions, felt in her heart that this 
quaint, plain, fidgety little woman had a touching idyl somewhere 
back in her life, that she had curtained from observation like some 
sacred thing in a niche. Then she asked her a question or two 
about the comparative excellence of the two new methods of teach- 
ing French just introduced, and so led the way back to the beaten 
path of her daily life, knowing but too well how sharp the hurt when 
old wounds, probed at random, are touched by accident in the sorest 
spot. But it was not long before Natalie and Sybil heard their 
names shouted from every quarter of the house, now high, now low, 
now far, now near. It was luncheon time, and the children were 
in quest of them. 

“Won’t you come, Miss Arnold?” said Sybil, pausing a moment 
at the door. 

“ Me ! I am not expected to lunch down-stairs. I beg your 
pardon, Miss Weston, I should not like it ; but you are very good 
all the same,” said Miss Arnold, when Sybil’s glowing countenance 
and half-opened lips showed an evident intention of insisting upon 
her going down with them. 

“ I am sorry you won’t come,” she replied — too delicate to urge 
a thing which was apparently distasteful ; and gently closing the 
door, she put her arm in Natalie’s, and for a moment or so did not 
speak ; then : “I wonder why ? Do you know, Natalie?” 

“ Why Miss Arnold do not come to lunch ? I suppose she is 
used to take it in the school-room,” replied Natalie, evasively. 

“ I should think it would be nicer for her than up there, all alone.” 

“Yes — perhaps! See! they are waiting you, the new sister,” 
said Natalie, glad to have the subject interrupted by a glimpse she 
caught of Edyth and Clara in the hall below, who conducted them 


TANGLED PA THS. 


121 


in triumph to the breakfast-room, where lunch was spread, and where 
by acclamation Sybil was forced to preside, for Mrs. Weston had ex- 
cused herself, and gone, and Mrs. Waite wished her to do so, say- 
ing : “ I wish to be entirely your guest to-day, my dear.” 

The appetites brought to that lunch-table were whetted to a 
double edge, first by the substantial viands, then by the luxuries of 
fruits, ices, and pastries interspersed among them, until it was a 
matter of deliberation which to seize upon first. They were too de- 
lighted and thankful in anticipation of the good things before them 
to think much of the formula of grace before meat, which was said 
nevertheless by Mrs. Waite ; a flutter of red dimpled hands making 
the Sign of the Cross ran round the table, and they fell to with a 
zest which ripened into jollity as their hunger lessened, until that 
room, accustomed to low voices, and formal routine, and a soulless, 
thankless indifference for blessings received, rang again with the 
sounds of innocent mirth that made the Venetian rarities jingle on 
the buffet , and sent the old butler to the shelter of his pantry under 
one excuse or another, to hide the grin that convulsed his decorous 
black face whenever the fun got a little too much for his gravity. 

“It’s like live folks ! ” he wheezed, all to himself; “ an’ not like 
blocks, or them ’ar idols that the priesteses used to purtend stuffed 
theyselves with all the nice things the white folks fotch. I wish 
Mars’ Weston had his house full o’ sich.” The old fellow meant 
children, though anyone to have heard him would have supposed it 
was the pagan priests and the idols of Baal that he wanted for 
his master’s consolation, not discerning very clearly that the spirit 
of the world that ruled in this home of wealth and luxury approached 
very near unto those only half-buried idolatries. 

After lunch Natalie was led away by the children — a willing cap- 
tive — to be shown some new games ; and Sybil invited her aunt to 
come with her to her own room, the exquisite arrangement and col- 
oring of which struck her eye as being most chaste and suitable to 
its lovely occupant. Sybil was pleased to have her room admired, 
not only that she thought it all really beautiful, but to praise it was 
a tribute to the care and kindness and good taste of her step-mother. 

“ This consecrates and makes it perfect,” said Mrs. Waite, stand- 
ing before Sybil’s oratory. 

6 


122 


TANGLED PA THS. 


44 It gives me a home-feeling — I don’t know how to express it — 
but it comforts me to have it here.” 

“ A secret sanctuary is it, Sybil, between the turmoil of life and 
higher things, where the soul can take counsel of God in its straits 
and perplexities, through the tender pity of that elect human heart 
who suffered the 4 sword of grief’ for our transgressions ?” 

44 Yes ; that is what it is to me,” she answered softly. 

44 And it is a scrap of your convent home; you can almost imag- 
ine yourself at 4 Holy Cross’ when kneeling here.” 

44 Yes ; I fear I should be homesick sometimes if it were not here. 
Take this nice low chair, Aunt Waite, and let me sit so, on this 
cushion, by you, for I want to ask your advice.” 

44 1 hope that I may be able to help you, my dear,” replied her 
aunt, remembering the conversation of a few hours ago with her 
sister-in-law, and hoping that Sybil would not ask her counsel on 
subjects upon which her opinion would savor of interference. 

Mrs. Waite smoothed back the fair ripples of hair from the girlish 
forehead — as, leaning upon her lap, the sweet, guileless face was 
lifted to hers — with tender touches, breathing a heart-prayer that the 
world might not mar a single line of a countenance that reflected 
such purity of soul. 

44 1 want you to tell me to whom I had best go to confession ; 
and if you think I might go to Mass every morning ? ” she asked. 

44 If you can come to me at noon on Saturday, my child, I will 
introduce you to a clergyman of great experience who will counsel 
you wisely and well. He once enjoyed high position, and gave up 
wealth and honors to dedicate his life to-the service of God, and 
will probably understand better than another, who has not been 
called upon to make such renunciations, the peculiar difficulties and 
temptations that await you. With counsel from him, you need have 
no fear.” 

44 1 shall come without fail, dear aunt ; for oh ! this new life into 
which I have been brought so unexpectedly makes me afraid ! 
Every one is so kind ; and you see what mamma has done for my 
comfort. I can’t tell you the trouble she has taken ; and it is all so 
bright and pleasant that my nature seems to take a soft delight in it 
that frightens me. I can’t tell mamma what I feel ; she’d think me 


TANGLED PA THS. 


123 

silly, and begin to rate my friends at 4 Holy Cross,’ and declare I 
was pining to be a nun. What am I to do about it ? ” 

44 My darling, did you ever hear at 4 Holy Cross ’ of a certain pre- 
cept that is the key-stone in the arch of the religious life, viz., that 
4 obedience is better than sacrifice ’ ? Keeping God, above all, before 
you, as your chief aim, and our Immaculate Mother as your model, 
your occasions for both sacrifice and obedience will be meritorious. 
It is easy to see that the temptations that threaten to beset you will be 
alluring, and difficult for a young heart to withstand, but with the 
love of God and His holy Mother to guide you, neither brightness, 
nor darkness, nor illusory flower-decked shores, nor false beacon- 
lights, nor the mirage of a safe port above a sunken re'ef, can lead 
your little barque astray, for they will prove both pilot and compass, 
and lead you through all perils, into the haven of your soul.” 

44 Yes, this must be so, unless I myself fail in something. My in- 
experience wifi, I fear, make me weak to withstand all the allure- 
ments that will surround me ; and then, you know, mamma, who 
has been so kind, will be hurt and may be offended, when, after all 
that she has done, I do not seem to enjoy everything.” 

44 Sybil, my child, you do not expect to go through life without a 
trial ! If we avoid one cross, or shake off the one laid upon us, we 
immediately find another that is harder to bear. The only thing to 
be done is to fortify ourselves by the means left us by our Divine 
Lord in His Church, and trust the result to Him ; aye, even though 
we stagger and grow faint and almost blind in the attempt. Then 
when our own strength fails us, we can still cling where the soul is 
ever safe, to the Cross, and at the feet of her who stood close 
beside it.” 

What moved Mrs. Waite to speak in this way to Sybil ? She was 
not a woman given to many words, and was reticent on spiritual 
subjects ; but a spirit seemed to fill her heart that flowed out in fact 
and metaphor with an eloquence of which she was all unconscious, 
to meet the needs of this guileless soul who had asked her help. 

44 But do you think mamma — ” 

44 Your mamma, my dear, will of course desire a brilliant success 
in society for you, and social engagements will occupy much of your 
time during the fashionable season ; but a pure and modest soul, 


124 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


stayed on God, when obliged to mingle with the world, exerts an in- 
fluence that is felt, and may lead some to the ‘ beauty of holiness.’ 
I suppose your father is very happy to have you at home.” 

“ I hope so ; but I see him so very little ! ” said Sybil, with a 
wistful look in her eyes. “ He has been very good in remembering 
me with flowers ; and mamma says it was by his orders that my 
room was made so beautiful, and all those rich and costly things 
that she bought yesterday for me were got. And yet — and yet — oh, 
aunt ! my father is so cold ! and I see so little of him, that although 
I try to believe so, I can not think he is glad to have me here ! ” 
This was Sybil’s pain, and it was out at last. 

u Put all such thoughts out of your head, my child. Your father 
is absorbed in business affairs so extensive that it makes me dizzy 
to think of them. You must accept what he does , rather than grieve 
over the absence of demonstrations of affection that it is not in his 
nature, neither has he the time to show. He is a silent man — one 
who never wore his heart upon his sleeve ; but there’s a well of deep 
feeling in his nature, I am sure ; in fact, I know there is.” 

“ But oh ! I so long to tell him how much I love and wish to please 
him ; to try and win his affections by ways that a child would be 
happy to show; but he repels me, and I shrink back more and more 
from him.” 

“ Sybil, you must accept people as you find them — even your own 
father. What we like or don’t like in them has no power to bring 
them up to our standard ; each one has peculiarities of tempera- 
ment, constitutional idiosyncrasies, and marked individualities of his 
or her own which form the sharp angles and the heavy cross of 
others, no less peculiar, who coine in contact with them ; and there’s 
nothing but a broad charity to be exercised that will teach us to 
bear and forbear. So don’t be discouraged ; wait patiently, and 
pray constantly ; for a day will come, I know , when your father will 
seek comfort in your affections. It is in the natural order of things ; 
but it takes time.” 

“ I hope so ; oh, I hope so ! ” said Sybil, as she arose, and went 
to her toilette-table, where, opening a drawer, she took out the 
casket, containing the parure of pearls her father had given her, to 
show her aunt. “ Look at these beautiful jewels, dear aunt. Papa 


TANGLED PA THS. 


125 

gave me this himself ; he thought of it, and bought it ; and even 
mamma did not know anything about it. Did you ever see any- 
thing more lovely ? ” 

44 They are certainly lovely ; every piece is perfect, and the de- 
sign very elegant. As your dear father’s gift, and an evidence of 
his affection, you may justly take pleasure in them, Sybil.” 

44 But you should only see them on the image of our Blessed 
Lady ; there they look in place, crowning her, and hanging like a 
girdle around her waist. One of our old nuns at 4 Holy Cross ’ told 
me one day that the name of Mary meant Sea, and that her Im- 
maculate Heart was a boundless sea ; and as pearls are brought up 
out of the depths of the sea, they remind me of her virtues and her 
purity. And, aunt — if you will not think I am presumptuous — I 
have offered them to her, and shall only wear them as a loan, when 
I’m obliged to do so ; and then, in some way or other, I don’t know 
how, they shall be used in her service.” 

44 Thus offered, Sybil, you will be blessed in their possession ; but 
why, my child, this offering, with a vow, of your father’s first gift?” 

44 For his conversion ! ” said Sybil, in scarcely audible tones, as 
she bowed her head on her aunt’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Waite was silent, but her heart was full. 44 Surely,” she 
thought, 44 the prayers of this child of many graces will be answered ! ” 

Presently there was heard a tapping on the door. Sybil opened 
it and there stood Natalie, Miss Arnold, Clara, and Edyth, waiting 
to be invited in. 

44 We brought them ! ” exclaimed both girls at once. 

44 1 am heartily glad you did ; and I hope they won’t want bring- 
ing again. Where are the boys ? ” 

44 Bab has them in the ball-room, Sybil ; she’s been dancing juba 
and singing mumbo songs for us, and we have laughed ourselves 
almost to pieces,” exclaimed Edyth, dropping loosely into a chair. 

44 Sit up, Miss Edyth, this moment ; hold up your chin ; throw back 
your shoulders ; put your hands in your lap and draw your feet to- 
gether, Miss !” exclaimed Miss Arnold, making a dart at her pupil. 

44 Don’t you see I can’t?” said Edyth, saucily, after placing her- 
self in the required position, then suddenly dropping to pieces like 
a rag-baby. 


126 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


“ Miss Arnold, I have not shown you papa’s present,” said Sybil, 
handing the open casket to the irritated little woman, to divert her 
attention from Edyth, who became so engrossed in admiring them 
that her refractory pupil, for the moment forgotten, threw herself 
against Natalie’s shoulder, and nestled her head with its frowse of 
golden curls against her white statuesque throat, while the warmth 
of her veins and the glow of her fiery, rebellious nature penetrated 
like a subtle essence the chilled heart of the mysterious woman. 
They were kindred affinities, those two, and the woman pitied the 
, child for the germ of those deep passions in her nature that had 
shipwrecked her own life. 

“ She’s done come !” exclaimed Maummy Barbara, thrusting her 
head suddenly into the door, her Madras turban hind part before, 
her apron torn to shreds, and her gay neck-handkerchief hanging 
down her back. “ She’s come ; Miss’ Weston is come. Scatter ! ” 

Sybil laughed, but no one scattered except Miss Arnold, whose 
cap-trimmings and curls and skirts all fluttered in such an absurd 
way as she skipped out of the room, that she seemed to be running 
all over like a centipede. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


It was Saturday, and Sybil sat waiting in the breakfast-room to 
speak to her step-mother, who had not yet come down, although it 
was after ten o’clock. Peter showed his dusky face at intervals, 
coming and going noiselessly ; now drawing down a window-shade ; 
now giving the fire a touch with the bright steel poker, to start it 
into a fresh blaze ; now moving a plate, or the cream-pitcher, or 
something else on the table, only to put them back exactly in the 
same place ; all the time alert for the faintest rustle indicating his 
mistress’ approach. Presently he brought in Sybil’s basket of loose 
flowers ; they had just come, with other things, from the hot-houses 
at “ Westover ” ; she preferred them so, with their long stems and 
leaves, to having them in stiff bouquets. She buried her face among 
them for an instant, and inhaled a deep draught of their sweetness. 

“Tell mamma, if she comes while I am up-stairs, that I will be 
back in a moment,” she said, remembering something that took her 
flying out of the room with her fragrant treasures. She stopped at 
Miss Arnold’s door to leave a tea-rose, half blown, and a handful 
cf violets, and without pausing to listen to her nervous “oil’s!” 
and other ejaculations of delight, hastened away to her own room, 
where a few moments sufficed to arrange them at the feet of the 
blest image of Mary. Then she laid her hat. gloves, and wraps out, 
that she might have nothing to do but put them on when she came 
up again to get i;eady to go to her aunt’s, and ran down-stairs, hop- 
ing that by this time her step-mother would be in the breakfast-room. 
But she was not there. 

“I hope mamma is not sick, Uncle Peter?” she inquired, as 
Peter looked in to see if it was Mrs. Weston who had just entered. 

“ Laws no, Miss ! it’s often this way ; only I has to be ready when 
she do come, and things has to be pipin’ hot ; if they aint, the 
Madame don’t like it.” 


(127) 


128 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Then Sybil settled herself to wait, as patiently as she might, until 
she came. She was anxious to be at her aunt’s early, as she had 
promised ; but not having mentioned her intention of spending the 
day there, she felt that it would be an impropriety for her to do so 
without seeing Mrs. Weston before she went, and tell her of the ar- 
rangement. But jhe minutes slipped by, the quarters rung their 
silvery chimes in the Trench clock upon the mantel ; and when an 
air from “Favorita* announced twelve o’clock, and the melodious 
trills and harmonies ceased as if a band of musical elves had sud- 
denly floated through the room, Sybil began to feel very restless and 
impatient. She might have composed herself in a degree by saying 
the Angelus , this being the hour, but Sybil had not been accustomed 
to be reminded of this sweet devotion by airs from operas played by 
a French clock ; so what with this and the fidget she was in, she 
forgot all about it. She was determined to wait no longer, but leave 
a message for Mrs. Weston, and be gone, for she was sure her aunt 
would be waiting for her, and might possibly go to St. Xavier’s with- 
out her, seeing that she did not come. But another impulse re- 
strained her, and she resumed her seat. There was a volume of 
Adelaide Procter’s poems on the reading-table near her, one of her 
last year’s premiums, that she had brought from her room 
that morning, and laid there and forgotten. She took it up 
listlessly, and by accident opened at “ The Legend of Bregenz ” ; in 
another moment she was lost to present annoyances under the 
charmed spell of the ideal. Two quarters more chimed their 
musical death-song as they dropped into the Past, but Sybil gave 
no heed to them ; she was reading, with ’bated breath, — 

“ 4 Faster ! ’ she cried, 4 oh, faster ! * 

Eleven the church-bells chime : * 

4 Oh God ! 9 she cried, ‘help Bregenz, 

And bring me there in time V 
But louder than bells ringing. 

Or lowing of the kine 
Grows nearer in the midnight 
The rushing of the Rhine.” 

Reading with such concentrated sympathy in the sublime heroism 


TANGLED PA THS. 


I29 


of the fair maid of the Tyrol who dared death to save Bregenz, that 
she did not observe Mrs. Weston, who now came in with steps so 
languid and slow that they made no sound ; or knew in the least that 
she was there, until she said : 

“You here, Sybil ! What old romance is that you are poring over 
so deeply ? ” 

“ Excuse me, mamma ; I did not hear you come in ! ” said Sybil, 
dropping her book and making a motion to rise. 

“ Don’t disturb yourself; the least thing sets my nerves on edge 
to-day.” 

“ I am sorry that you are not feeling well, mamma ! ” 

“ Oh ! I’m not in the least sick ; but I did not sleep well last 
night, and there’s just a little throb in my temples, and — oh, dear ! 
take all those things away, Peter, and let me have a cup of strong 
tea, with a Hamburg biscuit ; the very sight of food sickens me.” 

A cup of steaming, fragrant tea was brought. Peter knew his 
mistress’ ways, and made both tea and coffee every morning, that 
she might not be kept a moment waiting, for it was sometimes her 
whim to have one, sometimes the other; but now she wanted 
neither — she only sipped a spoonful or two, pronounced it detest- 
able, and ordered chocolate as quickly as it could be made. Peter 
removed the tea, and wondered “ what next ? ” Not that he cared ; 
for he had spirit-lamps and all sorts of French contrivances in the 
pantry for such emergencies ; negro-like, he rather enjoyed having 
his skill called into requisition, and did not in the least object to 
profusion and waste that added to his perquisites. 

“ What did you say you were reading, Sybil ? ” 

“ One of Miss Procter’s poems, mamma ; the ‘ Legend of Bre- 
genz.’ ” 

“ Oh, yes, I have heard of her ; but I never read poetry. Dear 
me ! how my temples throb ! ” said Mrs. Weston, pressing her 
fingers upon them. “ And as if this were not enough,” she con- 
tinued, “ I have just got a note from that French woman saying 
that you must be at her rooms by one o’clock for the final trying-on 
of your dresses.” 

“ I am extremely sorry — ” began Sybil. 

“ It is a bore, and I wish sometimes that it were the fashion to 
6 * 


130 


TANGLED PA THS. 


wear those loose, flowing things, draperies and all that, such as the 
Greek and Roman ladies wore, ever so long ago. But we’ll take a 
drive on the ‘ Heights ’ ; afterwards — ” 

“ I meant, mamma, that I am sorry to disappoint madame, the 
dressmaker — ” began Sybil, in great embarrassment. 

“ That is not to be thought of. You won’t get your dresses I 
don’t know when, if you should fail to go, for it was only the 
greatest favor on the earth that she consented to put some of her 
best customers off to oblige me. It is absurd ! I know that you 
can have no engagement yet, Sybil, that could excuse you on an 
occasion like this.” 

“ Indeed I have, mamma ; one that I must try to keep,” she 
answered, in low, yet firm tones. 

“And pray may I ask with whom, and for what?” asked Mrs. 
Weston, in cold tones, the languor gone out of her face, and the 
hard look in her eyes that Sybil had not seen until now. She knew 
that her step-mother was offended. 

“ Certainly, mamma. I am going to confession,” she said, gently. 

“ But why to-day especially?” 

“To-morrow is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, and I 
would not willingly miss Holy Communion.” 

“ And pray, may I ask whom you have chosen for a director ? ” 

“ Father De Haes, at St. Francis Xaviers.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Weston, “ what upon earth 
sends you there ? He has always a perfect rabble of the poorest, 
dirtiest, roughest sort of people waiting around his confessional. I 
don’t really think it will be proper.” 

“ I am going with Aunt Waite, mamma. 1 asked her advice 
about a confessor, and she spoke of Father De Haes ; and I 
promised to spend the day at her house, that I could go and come 
with her to and from church.” 

“I could have directed you to a confessor, Sybil — had you seen 
fit to ask my advice — to whom most of the Catholics of our own 
class go, and where you would not be kept waiting in a dirty crowd 
for hours, as I am told is always the case at St. Xavier’s,” remarked 
Mrs. Weston, who felt that the conflict between Sybil and herself 
had begun. But she would be prudent. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


I3I 

“ I think I prefer going to Father De Haes. But, mamma ! ” 
said Sybil — remembering her aunt’s good counsel — “ I will go with 
you to the dressmaker’s as soon as you are ready, and leave a note, 
if you please, for my aunt, asking her to wait for me. I suppose the 
trying-on will not require more than an hour or two.” 

“ I don’t know how long ; she is very particular, and feels that 
her reputation is at stake every dress she makes. I believe she’d 
commit suicide if she failed in a perfect fit.” 

“ How dreadful ! It must keep her very miserable ; for every one 
fails now and then, I fancy.” 

“ How very literal you are, Sybil,” remarked Mrs. Weston, with a 
faint smile. “ But run up and write your note, and be ready for the 
carriage in a quarter of an hour hence. You and your aunt can 
have the carriage afterward, for it will bring you to dark night be- 
fore you get back from St. Xavier’s, it is so far, should you attempt 
to walk.” 

“ Thanks, mamma ; you’re very kind ! ” said Sybil as she gathered 
up her book and hurried away. 

“ She’s got a will of her own. Commend me to a blonde for 
that. It will be no end of trouble to manage her. I’ll speak to her 
father about these expeditions to St. Xavier’s, for it will not really 
be prudent to allow her to go there to confession, so far, and in 
such a mixture. I don’t know what Louise Waite could have been 
thinking about ! Peter, give me just a thimbleful of curacoa ; I 
can’t get up my strength in the least ; then throw out those flow- 
ers, they suffocate me.” 

Peter brought the curacoa, in a small scarlet goblet of crystal 
that, with its gold devices, looked as much like a flame as the fluid 
within it really was pungent, fiery, and subtle ; but he did not throw 
away the flowers ; he never did, for he considered the scarcely faded 
blossoms of yesterday that were replaced by fresh ones to-day, his 
special perquisite, and turned them over to a bed-ridden daughter 
he had at home, who made them up into buttonieres and arranged 
them in a moss-lined basket, which her little son, a bright, merry- 
faced chap, carried to the fashionable hotels, where they had a ready 
sale among the exquisites who frequented the receptions, Germans, 
and other gaieties of the Capital. But Miss Arnold was never with- 


I3 2 


TANGLED PATHS. 


out her violets, geranium-leaves, and winter roses. Sybil saw to that ; 
and let who may disbelieve it, the little attention was such a balm 
to her, and the flowers glorified her lonely room with so many old 
springtime memories of the past, that she seemed to grow more 
patient with Edyth’s shortcomings, having pleasant things to occupy 
her mind which left less scope for the monotonous fret and worry 
of her daily existence. It was worth kind words and a few flowers 
to open the haunted spots of a life like hers to let in the sunshine. 

“ It’s them vi’lets ; they’ve sort of sot the po’ old thing up ! ” was 
Maummy Barbara’s remark to Peter one day, when they were discuss- 
ing various members of the household, and Miss Arnold in particu- 
lar. “ If you b’lieve me, that chile takes ’em to her, her own self, the 
next minit after she gets ’em. She aint been ’customed to sech 
’tentions — not sence she come here anyways, an’ I reckon they 
does her good.” 

“ In course they does. Po’ white folks has their feelin’s as well 
as colored pussons ; an’ I tell you the young Missis makes a sort o’ 
warm brightness in the house ; not that she says or does much, but 
her ways is kind, and her looks is kind ; she aint al’ays thinkin’ 
’bout herself, as if ther wasn’t nobody else in the world. An’ I tell 
you, it won’t be safe for to 1 go crossin’ of her, for the way master 
watches her when he thinks nobody sees him is a pity ! I sees 
many a thing from my pantry do’, for I has nothin’ to do but look 
on, you know, an’ make my own obserwations, that I keeps mostly 
to myself.” 

That Saturday morning, expecting Sybil, Mrs. Waite had ar- 
ranged her household matters, and was waiting for her when her 
note came. She laid off her wraps and bonnet and went to the 
school-room, where the young people were waiting for their cousin, 
everything in order for her entertainment, according to their ideas 
of order — for tables, chairs, and floor were covered with their treas- 
ures, fishing-tackle and flies, curious games, bat and ball, air-guns, 
and other cherished objects which were dearest and most enjoyable 
to their hearts, possessed as they were of a wide capacity for boyish 
pleasures. And they took it for granted that whatever delighted 
them must necessarily delight every one else, girls or not. They 
felt like young knights in the possession of a beautiful grown-up 


TANGLED PATHS. 


133 


cousin; they were to be her champions, she having no brothers 
of her own ; and if she failed to have a good time, it should not 
be their fault. These were the sentiments that in a crude, boy- 
ish form animated their hearts toward Sybil, and kept them from 
their outdoor games and enjoyments to do her honor on this their 
eagerly longed-for holiday ; and now, having got everything ready, 
they were waiting around impatiently, and beginning to fume be- 
cause she did not come. At this juncture Mrs. Waite appeared, 
and before they had time to swarm around her with a thousand-and- 
one questions, she said : 1 

“ Boys, you’d better go out and have a run ; and Natalie, dear, 
you and Clara will have time for a nice walk ” 

“Where’s Sybil? I say, mother, where is she?” queried John, 
in his big voice. 

“ Yes,” put in Baste, “ I want to know where she is ?” 

“ I know it’s some of Aunt Weston’s fid-fad doings ! ” added Con, 
in indignant tones. 

“ Oh, mamma ! why is not Sybil coming ? ” exclaimed Clara, not 
to be behindhand with the others. 

“ She is coming by and by, but has to go to the dressmaker’s.” 

“ Hang the dressmaker ! Sybil’s not going to be a circus rider 
that she must have so much finery and nonsense.” 

“John !” 

“And she promised !” growled Con. 

“ Oh, pshaw ! It’s no use ! She’s to be ground up into a fashion- 
able young lady. Good-bye, Sybil ! We boys aren’t company for 
the 4 Duchess May.’ ” 

“ Baste ! how silly you are ! You are all really rude sometimes, 
do you know ! You haven’t given me time to explain. Your 
cousin will be here after a while, and will take tea with us,” said 
Mrs. Waite. 

“ If she don’t have to go to the tailor’s or the milliner’s or some- 
where !” was John’s indignant response. 

“ Boys, do you remember what to-morrow is ? ” asked their 
mother. 

“ Of course, mother ! Catch Father Tracy letting us forget ! 1 

tell you he keeps us up to drill. Come, Con, get the bat and ball 


134 


TANGLED PATHS. 


and let’s be off ; and after the game, we’ll go and be done with it,’” 
answered Baste. 

“ Baste, you are speaking irreverently ! ” said his mother. 

“ I don’t mean to, mother; but tell me honestly, do you like to 
go to confession ? I say it’s no joke for a fellow to go and tell how 
bad he is.” 

“ If there were an easier way to forgiveness, I dare say, Baste, 
that none of us would be slow in choosing it ; as it is — ” 

“ We’ve got to face the music, to the right about march ! ” ex- 
claimed Con, with his merry laugh. 

“ I think it’s worse for the priest than for the people : to think 
of his having to listen to their wickedness and foolishness all his 
days ! Faugh ! it makes me sick just to think of it ! ” said John, 
with one of those deep looks that made his face have an eerie ex- 
pression when they came into it. 

It was a peculiarity of these brothers for each one to have a say 
on whatever subject that might be started in their presence ; and 
Mrs. Waite, wishing each one to develop his individual character- 
istics, would not check them ; she wanted them to have opinions 
of their own, and independence to express them, otherwise she 
would have no way of knowing what were the workings of each 
mind or how to guide them out of the erroneous ideas and fallacies 
that will spring up like weeds in the best guarded hearts of the 
young and inexperienced. 

“And, mother! I tell you what, it’s hard lines for Con and I 
when boys say things to us about being Catholics — ” 

“Yes, and tell us to our faces that we can lie or steal, or do 
anything bad we want to, and the priest will forgive us for money.” 

“ And when we tell them it is no such thing, they say they know 
better, for they read it in books and in the newspapers,” added 
Baste. 

“And then — ” she asked. 

“ Well, one word brings on another, and somebody gets knocked 
down, and some others get their heads punched occasionally.” 

“ That is not a good way to argue, boys. It is bringing human 
passions against error, anger and blows against ignorance ; for you 
must know that most of those who are outside the Faith have no 


TA NGLED PA THS. 1 3 5 

conception of its truths, except as they learn them from others who 
know as little. In this way they judge us erroneously.” 

“ But they needn’t be insulting, mother, and tell us they know 
more about our religion than we do ourselves ! You can’t argue 
with such fellows, except with your fists ! ” said Con. 

“ Con, I wish I could make it clear to you, that it is self-love, I 
fear, more than zeal for your religion that makes you take offense, 
and resent the foolish expressions of those who know no better, 
and who can judge you only by your daily life. It is very pro- 
voking, I grant ; but, my boy, you can’t begin too soon to learn to 
‘ possess your soul in patience.’ ” 

“ Anyhow, mother, St. Peter cut off the ear of the high-priest’s 
servant, and I think it’s a pity he didn’t take some of their heads off 
instead of an ear,” said John. 

“And our Lord, in whose defense it was done, rebuked him, and 
healed the man’s wound. Come now, boys, never do you be 
ashamed of your religion, no matter what people may say or think 
about it, but show by your lives what it is ; if need be, die for it, 
but sin not even in its defense.” 

“But how would you like to be called a Paddy, because you’re 
a Catholic ? ” asked Baste, indignantly. 

“ I shouldn’t mind in the least, since ‘ Paddy’ means a people 
who have suffered martyrdom for their Faith for centuries. Well 
may their native land be called the 1 Isle of Saints.’ ” 

“ But they’re just like St. Peter, if I know anything about them ; 
it’s a word and a blow ! ” said John, with a chuckle, thinking he had 
cornered his mother. 

“ They have his Faith, and endure all things, even death, rather 
than betray it. But it is time for you to be off now, and don’t for- 
get that it is only by your own acts that you can prove what your 
faith teaches in deed and in truth,” said the patient mother, as she 
pushed back the crisp, black curls from Baste’s forehead, where 
they were continually upsetting themselves and dangling in his eyes, 
especially if he got to talking about anything that excited or worried 
him ; for then he had a fashion of throwing his head back with a 
quick motion by way of emphasis, now and again, which set them 
every one in motion. 


136 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


“ Get him a girl’s round comb, mother, to keep them out of his 
eyes ; they might make him squint,” suggested John. 

“ Stop your chaff, old fellow ! ” laughed Baste. 

“And, I say, don’t you and Con go to cutting off somebody’s 
ears before you get home ! ” retorted John. 

“ All right ! ” said the lads, good-naturedly, as they gathered up 
their base-ball things, hunted up their caps, and finally scampered 
down their own staircase and out of the side-door with a merry 
whoop and hurrah. 

“ Heigh-ho ! I’m left alone in my glory ! ” said John, as the last 
sound of their voices died away. 

“ Not quite alone, my lad. I am going to sit here with you. See ! 
I have ‘Du Chaillu’s Adventures among the Gorillas’ to read to 
you.” 

“ Oh, mother, what a treat ! ” exclaimed the boy, his intelligent 
face lit up with a sudden glow. 

John was happy now, having her thus all to himself, and she read- 
ing aloud to him of scenes and adventures that, like a miracle, 
seemed to rehabilitate his crippled body with new life and strength, 
as in imagination he followed the adventurous traveler through the 
deep jungles and forests of Africa, in company with savages, search- 
ing for the hideous animals scarcely a scale lower than themselves. 
The moments passed rapidly, they did not know how rapidly, until 
a shadow fell across them, and on looking up they saw Sybil, who 
had come in unheard by either Mrs. Waite or John, so deeply were 
they both interested in the book. 

“ Here I am at last, dear aunt. I was afraid that madame would 
not have finished until it was too late ; but she had just got a wed- 
ding order and made haste.” 

“ You are quite in time, my child ; and I am very glad to see you ; 
but we have a long walk before us, and must hurry off,” said Mrs. 
Waite, still holding Sybil’s hand in the affectionate grasp of her own, 
as she rose from the chair beside John. 

“We are to have the carriage, mamma was so kind as to say. 
John, will you not come with us? the carriage is soft and warm.” 

“ If I could get out when mother and you do, I would ; but thank 
you, Sybil, all the same.” 


TANGLED PA 7'1/S. 


137 

“ And how are you ? I needn’t ask though ; you look so bright 
and well.” 

“ I feel so. I have had her and a jolly book all to myself for two 
whole hours ! ” he answered, indicating who “ her ” was by a nod 
toward his mother; “and so I’m in high good-humor with your 
French dressmaker, Aunt Weston, and everybody else.” 

“For keeping me away? Fie, John !” said Sybil, laughing. 

John did not attempt to evade the imputation ; he only colored 
up and laughed, for to have his mother entirely to himself was one 
of those rare and delightful occasions that always made him most 
happy. 

“ I expect,” he said, “you’ll have to wait your turn a good while 
to-day.” 

“ I suppose so ; but we won’t mind that. What is it, Uncle 
Tom?” 

“ Missis is a-waitin’,” answered the old servant, who just then ap- 
peared in the doorway ; “ and how is yourself, young Missis ? ” 

“ I am very well ; how do you do ! ” said Sybil, laying her fair 
white hand in the old negro’s dusky palm, who held it for an instant 
and then put it gently from him as though it were something too 
dainty and fragile for him to touch. 

“ I’s always well, young Missis, ’cept now an’ ag’in a tech of 
rhumatiz in my ole bones ; but, Lord bless you, you grows more an’ 
more like your own ma every time I sees you ; an’ she was the purti- 
est, soft-spoken cretur ; but I forgot what I come for. Missis is 
waitin’ down-stairs, in the hall ; she had somethin’ to ’tend to, so 
she said you’d ’scuse her for not cornin’ up ag’in.” 

“I’m coming this moment. Good-bye, John ; I am coming back 
to spend the rest of the day with you ; but you — will you be all 
alone?” said Sybil, waiting a moment in sudden dread, lest in tak- 
ing her aunt away there would be no one left with him. 

“ Don’t make yourself in the least uneasy about me,” he replied, 
with his quaint little laugh ; “ Tom’s here, and some boy of other is 
always bouncing in. I hear one now coming up our steps.” 

Sure enough the side door opened and there was one of the 
“Knights of the Round Table” — as John called his friends — a 
bashful-looking young fellow, who might have passed for a growing 


138 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Sir Galahad had it not been for the mischief and spirit that sparkled 
in his eyes. Sybil nodded to the new-comer, and ran down-stairs to 
join her aunt. In a moment or so they were on their way to . St. 
Xavier’ s. 

St. Xavier’s Church, when first erected, was on the very outskirts 
of the city, with only the humble and scattered dwellings of the 
poor around it ; neither the streets nor sidewalks leading to i-t were 
graded or paved, and there were settlements at no great distance, 
populated by a rough, disorderly class, most of whom had been 
driven by poverty, and a precarious struggle for bread, into a sullen 
and reckless disregard for whatever religious or moral training they 
had ever known, too often seeking to allay their hunger and drown 
their cares in the transitory merriment and forgetfulmess of intoxi- 
cation. More than one madman — made so by drink — had com- 
mitted murder there, whom not even the plea that the deed was 
done in the frenzy of drunkenness could save from the gallows ; 
others were expiating crimes against law and order in the peniten- 
tiary — which, had they been in their sober senses, they would have 
died rather than commit ; but these examples only served as a tem- 
porary check to their fellows — who, after the first shock, would fall 
back into their old reckless, disreputable ways. Numbers of these 
people were Catholics by birth and baptism — “strangers in a 
strange land ” — to which they had come as to an El Dorado where 
they imagined competence was to be found without effort, and where 
of course they met only disappointments that made them desperate ; 
and missionary aid came none too soon to them. The foundations 
of St. Xavier’s were dug, and the building begun under the direction 
of Father De Haes, who had difficulty in getting the approval of 
his superiors for the work, so many obstacles appeared to bar its 
progress and success. But with a large faith and simple trust in 
Divine Providence, the gentle priest carried out his project in a 
spirit of dauntless courage, undismayed by the threatening visages 
and bleared, suspicious eyes that watched his coming and going. 
They would come round in half drunken groups and jeer at the 
workmen, who sometimes would find on returning to their labor in 
the morning that much of their work of the day before was demol- 
ished ; but Father De Haes counseled patience ; he would have no 


TANGLED PA THS. 


*39 


complaint made, no police watch kept, no arrests ; and by and by 
these men, who had imagined that he would attempt to assert some 
authority over them, and become unto them a restraint and vex- 
ation, found by slow degrees that his coming would prove a temporal 
help, and, as some of them already discerned, a blessing ; for, as is 
usually the case wherever a Catholic church goes up, no matter how 
unpromising the neighborhood may appear, its prosperity dates from 
that period. St. Xavier’s was scarcely completed before the out- 
lying lots around it began to be utilized by the erection of small, 
comfortable dwellings ; streets were defined as laid down in the plan 
of the city, and the work of grading and paving commenced, with 
other improvements, which gave employment to many of those who 
had been hitherto offenders against law and order, because idle, and 
unsuccessful in their efforts to put their brawn and muscle to good 
uses. Father De Haes had baffled their defiant rudeness by gentle- 
ness, their coarse threats by courage of a sort new to them, by per- 
sistent kindness to the little ragged children, to the sick and dying 
of their poor, want- stricken households, by getting work for the men, 
establishing a night-school for the boys, and opening a Sunday- 
school for the younger children of both sexes. The rags that 
scarcely covered the nakedness of these children made them 
ashamed when congregated together in the airy, newly-painted 
school-room, in the presence of Father De Haes, and two or three 
charitable ladies whom he had engaged to assist him ; they looked 
at each other, and as in a mirror saw their own unwashed faces, the 
squalidness and dirt of their tattered garments, their uncombed, 
tangled locks, their naked feet, crusted with the soil in which they 
paddled about from morning until night, and a sudden conscious- 
ness came upon them that reddened some sunburnt cheeks, and 
filled others with a sullen determination not to come there again. 
The ladies saw how it was, and exactly what help these young Bo- 
hemians needed before they could be led to even the first rudiments 
of spiritual and mental enlightenment; and they were dll invited to 
meet at the school-room on the following Saturday, for the purpose 
of receiving presents of dresses and other articles of wear, the 
ladies going among them and whispering into eager ears “ to be 
sure to wash and comb themselves before they came, for only those 


140 


TANGLED PA THS. 


who did so would receive anything.” Our readers can easily im- 
agine the raid made upon the households of the faithful by these 
indefatigable ladies, and the basket-loads of outgrown garments 
they realized by their efforts, and how willingly many merchants 
gave hats, shoes, remnants of dry-goods, and even money, to help so 
good a cause ; until by the time Saturday came, enough of every- 
thing had been collected — yes, more than enough — for the success 
of their purpose; and thus the “naked were clothed,” and the 
“poor had the Gospel preached unto them.” So simple are the 
means by which some of the Beatitudes are reached. 

The success of Father De Haes’ missionary work was not of so 
slow a growth as might be imagined ; for the harvest was ripe, and 
by his apostolic spirit and large faith he gathered these neglected, 
almost despairing souls back into the fold from which they had gone 
astray, as well as many others who had been in deed and in truth 
the heathen of a Christian land. Three years had sufficed to change 
the aspect and morale of the region around St. Xavier’s ; and the 
police reports, once filled with miserable records of its disorderly 
population, now seldom had reason to name it — having, as they 
officially reported, but “ rare occasions to exercise their authority 
there since St. Xavier’s Church was built, and the pastor, a Father 
De Haes, had established Sunday and night-schools for the instruc- 
tion of the children and all who chose to attend.” Aye, they might 
have added, had they only known, when at the end of their report 
they called the work that had been accomplished “ a noble one,” 
that such apostolic labors and the fruits thereof are of so common 
occurrence in the Catholic Church as scarcely to attract attention ; 
but which, like a stone cast into a lake, agitates its whole surface 
and sends its circling ripples from shore to shore ; so in planting a 
good work its fruits and effects are infinite, endless, stretching from 
time into eternity with its harvests. 

And thoughtful-minded men, and men of sagacious understand- 
ing, and unbelievers, and the simply curious, used to come out to 
see the transformation wrought in this short time ago turbulent and 
unimproved district, and see what manner of man he was who, by 
the grace of God, had accomplished such great results. And when 
they saw him — a small, delicate man, clad in rusty black, with 


TANGLED PATHS. 


141 

nothing to distinguish him from his poor congregation except the 
intellectual force of his finely-formed head, and the keen perceptive 
glance of his eye, which not even the habitual humility of his expres- 
sion could veil — and heard majestic and divine truths enunciated by 
him in simple language to meet the comprehension of his people, 
and noted the zeal and fervor that gave weight to his words and ele- 
vated the souls of his listeners to spiritual aspirations — all unknown 
to them — they would go away pondering grave questions in their 
own minds, which eventually led some of them to the Truth, or 
babbling with each other about the remarkable skill exercised by 
the Catholic priesthood over the minds of the ignorant masses. To 
these latter it was indeed no more than if they had gone out into 
the wilderness to see men as trees walking ; “ or a reed in the des- 
ert shaken by the wind.” But there was the grand fact — nothing 
could change that : order had sprung out of disorder by the author- 
ity of a Divine Faith ; “ light had risen out of darkness,” and the 
people who had sat in the shadow of death were delivered and 
brought into new life, as by a second birth. 

“That is St. Xavier’s,” said Mrs. Waite, “in the square just be- 
yond 11s. Had we not better get out and walk there, my dear ?” 

“ As you please, Aunt Waite,” said Sybil, as she signaled Donald 
through the check-tube to stop ; and they got out, telling him that 
they would walk the short distance between them and the church. 
He turned into the next street and drew up before a new, unoccu- 
pied building that sheltered his horses and self from the keen north 
wind, to await their return, hoping it might be soon; for although 
the cold did not incommode him, wrapped as he was in a great fur 
cape, with a fine buffalo robe drawn up over his legs, he was 
hungry, and thirsting for his ale, and indulged in sundry growls over 
the hardships of the situation. 

Mrs. Waite and Sybil joined the stream of men, women, and 
children who were wending their way into the church, and Sybil felt 
glad that they approached as others did, instead of dashing up in 
her father’s elegant equipage, to attract attention and make a dis- 
turbance with the prancing horses and Donald’s insufferable flour- 
ishes. And then it was more fitting to the errand that brought her 
there ; she thought that they should approach the tribunal of pen- 


142 


TANGLED PA THS. 


ance without any outward sign that would in the least distinguish 
her from others brought thither by the same intention ; she compre- 
hended her aunt’s motif without explanation, and after spending a 
short time before the altar in deep and recollected devotion, Mrs. 
Waite and herself took their places, kneeling with the throng around 
Father De Haes’ confessional. 

There had been no exaggeration about the crowds generally col- 
lected there on the eves of certain holy days and festivals ; the indi- 
viduals composing them were, for the most part, of that class — the 
poor — whom our Lord foretold should always be with His Church ; 
there were some in squalid raiment ; there were laborers covered 
with the soil and moil of their daily work ; there were negroes kneel- 
ing side by side with the whites, the marks of their race upon them, 
the abjectness of their condition apparent in their countenances 
and in the poverty of their garments. Here at least, there was no 
distinction made ; they were in their Father’s house, in whose 
presence all were equal ; here they knew that the Sacraments were 
administered to all alike, and that the highest and richest knelt 
beside the poor slave, and often yielded precedence to him in the 
religious solemnities of his faith. And to her eternal honor be it 
said that such were the teachings and customs of the Catholic 
Church when the plague of slavery pervaded the land, and before 
the question had been brought to a terrific and bloody issue, she 
alone had the Divine courage to insist upon the spritual enlighten- 
ment of the slaves by making such instructions as were necessary, 
obligatory upon such of their owners as were Catholics ; she alone 
received them into her fold as children of the same Father and co- 
heirs with Christ, and there were none to say unto them : “ Wait 
thou here, slave ! until I go to the Table of the Lord, and then 
thou mayest approach and gather up the crumbs that are left*;” 
for in the administration of her Divine Sacraments there was 
no such thing known as precedence ; bond and free, black and 
white, all fared alike. Knowing, as most of us do, what slavery 
was, it is well to hold this fact in remembrance as a precious 
memorial of the heaven-sent mission of the Church. 

Sybil and Mrs. Waite were the last to enter the confessional ; by 
this time the wintry twilight had filled the church with dim shadows, 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


143 


leaving only one luminous spot that gleamed like a spark amidst 
the surrounding darkness, the lamp of the Sanctuary that pointed 
the weary soul to the spot where the Lord reposed, as the mystical 
star that once lit up the Eastern night guided men to the humble 
Crib of the Redeemer. Those who are separated from the true faith 
by the accident of birth, education, or willful blindness — who imag- 
ine that our holy religion is one of pomp, ceremony, and form only, 
without a vestige of spirituality — would be perhaps amazed to dis- 
cover the deep and silent devotion of souls in such a scene as this, 
or at a low Mass, where the beauty and glory of the Sanctuary in 
the splendor of vestments, the glow of flowers, the glitter of tapers, 
the aromatic film of incense rising from golden censors, and the soft 
thrilling reverberations of the organ, and the lofty anthems that 
bear up the sublime language of prayer or rejoicing on the very 
wings of melody toward heaven, come not in sweet distractions be- 
tween the devout soul and the Presence of its Lord ; but where, in 
the solemn hush of the morning, when only the low voice of the 
priest who is celebrating the Holy Mysteries is heard, and the 
scarcely whispered prayers of the kneeling worshipers respond, 
then it is that communion with Him is as “ deep calling unto 
deep,” and the soul laid bare before Him has a realization of the 
true meaning of faith, and speaks with Him, as it were, “ face to 
face,” nothing doubting, and submitting all things whatever to His 
divine will. This silent, reverent devotion in our Church, when to 
the eye there is nothing to excite it, is a mystery to Protestants, and 
it is sometimes forced upon their minds that this people whom they 
looked upon as idolaters have something of a deeper significance to 
console them than the mere dignity and splendor of religious ex- 
ternals. Some even discover that Catholics have the same spiritual 
life that the Christians of the Catacombs, the Christians who fought 
with wild beasts in the arena, the Christians who were put to death 
by fire and sword for their faith, had ; and believing thus far, are 
not slow to comprehend that should the Church be stripped again 
of her robes of peace and rejoicing by tyrants — her children, as now 
in the devout hours of silent prayer before Her altars, as then, when 
compelled to worship in hidden places, in the gloom and darkness 
of caverns, and even among the graves of their dead, without the 


144 


TANGLED PA THS. 


sound of music, the sweet fragrance of incense, the grand ceremo- 
nials in which, like a bride, she is clothed — will be known by the 
same spirit, rejoicing in tribulation, as in triumph, drawn nearer and 
nearer to their great Head by suffering, and ready for scourges or 
death, as of old, for their divinely instituted Faith. 

After a devout thanksgiving in the solemn, restful twilight of the 
humble church, Mrs. Waite and Sybil went home ; while Donald, 
the coachman, congratulated himself that Mrs. Weston was not 
given to such religious visitations to such far and out-of-the-way 
places as this. 

“ Do not come for me, Donald ; my aunt says the boys will bring 
me home. Be sure and tell mamma ! ” said Sybil, when the car- 
riage stopped at Mrs. Waite’s house. 

Of course Donald was straightway zealous to come, fearing that 
he had shown a little surliness about waiting out there at St. 
Xavier's so long ; but seeing that the sweet, pleasant face, upon 
which the carriage lamp shone down, meant what it said, without 
reserve (for there are none who are such keen physiognomists as 
those whose business it is to watch and wait), he only said : “ I will 
do as you say, Miss,” then drove off. 

A merry, happy evening it was for Sybil ! A family group of clean 
consciences, brightened by the expectation of receiving Holy Com- 
munion in the morning — who could have greater cause for thankful- 
ness and cheerfulness ? 

Even John had received absolution. Father Tracy always came 
to him at such times ; and on the morrow he himself brought the 
Holy Sacrament to the afflicted lad. Every one of them would in 
the early morning receive the Bread of Life, and this ever-present 
thought touched a deeper chord of joy in each heart than the mere 
human happiness of the tender family ties that united them and the 
pleasant surroundings of their existence could impart ; but no one 
spoke of it, or referred to it ; each one understood the mystical bond 
that united them one to the other — all except Natalie — and so their 
cheerfulness was without levity, but enjoyable none the less. It was 
arranged that Mrs. Waite and the boys should call for Sybil on their 
way to the parish church, in the morning, in time to be present at 
one of the early Masses. 


TANGLED PATHS. 


145 


Alone with Natalie a few moments while she was putting on her 
things to go, Sybil took a little picture from her prayer book, repre- 
senting the Mother of Sorrows contemplating the blood-stained 
Crown of Thorns her Divine Son had worn upon the Cross, and 
gave it to her: “ Just to remember,’’ she said, “when you see it, 
in turning the leaves of your prayer-book, to say a little prayer for 
me.” 

Natalie’s white face crimsoned. How could she shock this pure 
soul by telling her that she never prayed, that she considered all re- 
ligion as a chimera ; and yet how could she accept this simple offer- 
ing under a false pretense, and how would it be possible to reject it 
without explanation ? 

“ I thought you would like it ; the face of our Holy Mother wears 
such a deep pathos,” said Sybil, observing her hesitation ; “ but there 
are some persons, I believe, who object to pictures as a distraction 
— so few of them are well executed ? ” 

“May I tell you something?” said Natalie, with sudden resolve. 

“ Certainly you may.” 

“ I can not deceive you, even if it costs me that which I most 
covet — your friendship.” 

“ Oh, Natalie ! let us be friends indeed ! Ever since I first saw 
you, I thought : ‘ If she will be my friend I shall be happy ; ’ and 
now you speak as if that might be impossible.” 

“You must be the judge. I wear this,” said Natalie, in low tones, 
as she drew from her bosom the gold medal set with pearls that Mrs. 
Bradford had hung around her neck that memorable night in Paris, 
“ because it is the gift of a friend ; but I believe not. It may be that 
my soul — if there is such a thing — has never awoke.” 

“ Oh, Natalie ! ” cried Sybil, in tones of such deep pity and won- 
der that the mysterious woman’s heart smote her for having unveiled 
its gaunt skeleton to her ; but having begun, she must finish, and 
endure the result ; for had not her whole life been one of losses — 
why, then, need she shrink from the risk of this ? 

“ And having no beliefs,” she went on, “ I do not pray ; and so, 
take back your picture, my child; it is not for such as I.” 

“ Not so, Natalie,” exclaimed Sybil, gently pushing back her 
hand. “ For such as you, was all the bitter anguish of Jesus and 
7 


146 


TANGLED PA TJ/S. 


Mary endured ; keep the picture, look at it, think of it, and try to 
comprehend it.” 

“ It was a bitter tragedy, I know : but other human hearts have 
been outraged by injustice, have been wrung through their first-born, 
ah, so cruelly ! ” said Natalie, looking down at the picture, and speak- 
ing in those concentrated, clear tones, scarcely above a whisper, which 
sound like the echo of griefs too deep for utterance. “ Pardon me ; 
outcast me from the love I crave, but do not — no, you will not des- 
pise me, for I have not deceived you.” 

“ Despise you ! Oh, Natalie ! I wish I could tell you all the love 
and pity I feel, and how my heart yearns toward you.” 

“ Still?” she asked with an infinite longing in her sad eyes. 

“ Yes, still ; more than ever, since I know your great need. Oh, 
Natalie ! you can not, can not remain in revolt against your Creator, 
who has formed and fashioned you with every perfect human gift of 
body and mind ! Prayer must, and will save you.” 

A low bitter laugh was the only answer, and it grated on Sybil’s ear 
like the crash of a rude hand on the chords of an instrument of music. 

“ Pardon me ; I meant not scorn for your faith,” said Natalie, re- 
covering her impassive calm ; u but for the impossibility your words 
suggest.” 

“ All things are possible with God ! ” answered Sybil with sublime 
faith. 

“ Ah, my child ! pity me ! love me ! do as you will, I am human ! 
I love ! I hate ! Aye, I am faithful unto death for a true friend ; 
so you may trust me. All beyond that is above my reach,” said 
Natalie, her voice tremulous as though with tears, but there was no 
moisture in her eyes — only that look of infinite longing which told 
of a broken life, and a hungry soul. 

“Be my friend, Natalie, and take me for yours,” said Sybil, open- 
ing her arms as if to embrace her; but Natalie by a quick gesture 
gathered both her hands in the soft clasp of one of her own ; then 
gently drawing the girl’s fair head to her breast, laid her cheek upon 
it, and let her go, whispering : “ If you will, whatever comes, I am 
your friend until death.” 

“ I shall offer my Communion for you in the morning, Natalie,” 
said Sybil, strangely moved. 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


14 7 


“And,” she went on, unheeding, “ if a time comes, when, know- 
ing me better, knowing all that I know about myself, you will hate 
me, I will love you and trust you still, as you now trust me. Give 
me the picture you offered me ; ah ! were she living upon earth I 
would find her, and serve her for the sorrow she has known ! But 
let us no more speak together as to-night, for it can not help — no ! 
it would only stir up foul waters that must rest.” 

“ Then good-night, Natalie ; here is the picture of her who is the 
Comforter of the Afflicted,” said Sybil, handing her the picture, 
“ Now, I must go ; I hear the boys calling me. Good-night ! ” 

When Mr. Weston got in that night from his club, he missed the face 
that — now grown more familiar — had ceased to pain him, as at first. 

“ Where is Sybil ? ” 

“ Oh, dear ! is that you, Mr. Weston ? You are home early, and 
I really believe I was dozing, having no one to speak to,” said Mrs. 
Weston, awakening from a nap. 

“ I am earlier than usual ; I supposed, however, that Sybil and 
you were spending a pleasant evening together. Where is she ? ” 

“She’s at your sister’s. There are your slippers, near the fender. 
She’s been there all the afternoon.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Weston, looking pleased. 

“ Yes— and I must really tell you something that I don’t exactly 
approve of, and think it my duty to ask your interference — that is, 
you had better speak to Sybil about it.” 

“ What has she done ? ” asked Mr. Weston, gravely. 

“ Well, it’s an awkward thing altogether for me to meddle with, 
being a Catholic myself. But to come to the point, Sybil has taken 
it into her head that she must go to confession to Father De Haes, 
away out there at St. Xavier’s, where only the lowest class of people 
go. I don’t think it prudent; indeed I don’t; it is a long, lonely 
walk, out at the very edge of town, with all sorts of rough people 
swarming around.” 

“ Evidently not fashionable ! ” replied Mr. Weston, with a quiet 
twinkle in his eyes. “ But why not choose a confessor nearer 
home?” 

“ Why not, sure enough? But Sybil asked your sister’s advice, 
and this is the result.” 


1 48 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“ Oh ! that alters the<case entirely. If Sybil is with my sister, she 
is safe ; where she goes, I have no fear of my daughter’s going. 
The distance is nothing when one has a carriage.” 

“I sent the carriage to take them there and bring them home,” 
she answered curtly. 

“ Thank you, Anne. If Sybil prefers going to St. Xavier's she 
must not be opposed. One’s spiritual affairs must be left to one’s 
self.” 

“ As yours, for instance ? ” 

“ Exactly; such as they are. I am willing for all to exercise the 
same right as myself. But how is Sybil to get home ? ” 

“ She sent word by Donald that Con and Baste would fetch her ; 
and forbade his bringing the carriage.” 

“Just what her mother would have done. Self was her last 
thought,” passed through Mr. Weston’s mind; but he said nothing, 
for just then the hall door opened, and a ripple of young voices, a 
merry sound of laughter mingled with “ good-nights,” floated through 
the silent rooms ; then Sybil, all glowing with her walk in the cold, 
frosty air, came in, serene and smiling. 

“ I hope I have not kept you up, mamma ; I am glad to see you, 
papa, and say 4 good-morning ’ and ‘good-night’ together,” she 
said, offering her hand to Mr. Weston, as he stood upon the rug, a 
very English fashion he had ; he held her hand for a moment pressed 
close in a warm clasp, then he dropped it, and walked over to his 
chair and sat down, choking back the rising tenderness, the very 
least manifestations of which would have been a boon to Sybil, 
who was waiting and watching and hoping for his love. 

“ I am glad you got safely back from St. Xavier’s ! How did 
you like it?” said Mrs. Weston, amused at the idea of “being 
kept up,” and it not yet eleven o’clock. 

“Very much, mamma,” she replied, thinking only of Father De 
Haes and the church. 

“ A rough crowd as usual, I suppose ? ” 

“ I did not notice, mamma. No one behaved roughly.” 

“ I suppose you go to early Mass ? ” 

“ Yes, mamma. Aunt Waite and the boys are coming by for me, 
and if you and papa will excuse me, I’ll run away to bed.” 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


I49 


“ At what hour, Sybil ? ” 

“ Six o’clock. Good-night, mamma, (S&od-night, papa. 

“ Good heavens, Mr. Weston, your daughter will kill herself at 
this rate ! Why, it is not light at six o’clock ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Wes- 
ton, after Sybil went out. 

“ No, I don’t think she will,” he replied. “ It won’t hurt her 
one-half as much as the late hours and all the rest of the nonsense 
of the season will.” 

“ But we shall see nothing of her if this is to be the routine, going 
to bed at poultry hours and rising at cock-crow to go to church in 
the dark ! ” 

“ If I remember rightly, Tom always goes along, with a lantern ; 
the boys since they were old enough also go with their mother. Be- 
sides this, if you should ever happen to be up about that time of the 
morning on your way home from a ball, as I have sometimes been, when 
I have had to be all night at the bank getting my foreign exchanges 
worked up in time to go out by the European mail — you will see a 
procession of twinkling lights approaching the church from every di- 
rection, borne by men and women on their way to the first Mass ; 
and a very pretty sight it is, as seen through the darkness. I step- 
ped into St. Mark’s one morning, out of curiosity, to see what was 
going on, and noticed that but for these lights — lanterns or candles, 
or whatever they might be that sparkled here and there and every- 
where — the whole body of the church would have been dark ; as 
only the altar-candles were lit, and the people were praying as de- 
voutly by them as if there had been music and incense and all the 
rest of it, I don’t know what.” 

“ Good gracious, Mr. Weston ! who would ever suppose you 
noticed such things ! ” 

“I notice a great deal, Anne, that I keep to myself. As to 
Sybil, it is not church-going that will hurt her ; but the late hours, 
the dancing, the bad air of crowded ball-rooms, and the glare and 
the miserable false atmosphere that will surround her day and night, 
that will do the mischief. I would to God she could remain as she 
is — so pure, so true, so like — ” said Mr. Weston, with strange 
earnestness, but without completing the last sentence, suddenly 
remembering himself in time. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


x 5° 

“ How extremely odd for you to object to your daughter’s shin- 
ing in society ! ” said Mrs. Weston, in a tone of blended wonder 
and sarcasm. 

“ It would be more odd to expect you ever to understand me, 
Anne,” he answered, in a fretted tone, half ashamed of his outburst. 

u I confess my stupidity,” she said, yawning. “ But let us 
change the subject, and have a game of whist ; I understand that , 
you’ll allow ! ” said Mrs. Weston, lighting the wax candles on the 
card-table. “ Shall I deal ? ” 

He sat down mechanically to the table ; his wife’s white jeweled 
hands flashed and fluttered over the cards, and, everything being 
ready, the game began — the game which usually absorbed every 
faculty of this man’s mind when he played, and which he invariably 
won ; but to-night he blundered — his thoughts were elsewhere, and 
Mrs. Weston won. 


CHAPTER IX. 


The Christmas holidays were approaching, fraught with their 
usual joyous anticipations of mingled earthliness and heavenliness 
to great and small ; of sublime devotion to some, of dull wonder to 
others, of “ peace and good-will ” to all, especially to such as would 
participate in it as a sacramental renewal of the great Mystery of 
Bethlehem, when the Word made Flesh dwelt among us. However 
beliefs run, little children are generally made happy by this festival ; 
the true motif of it, whether made plain to them by the light of faith, 
or heard of only in a dim way, or blent with crude imaginations of 
fairies and the like in their innocent minds, being that the Son ot 
God came upon earth as a little child. And while one-half the world 
accepts it according to its sacramental meaning, the other half re- 
gards it only as a time for festive and hilarious enjoyment, without 
discerning that it is a season set apart by the Church, from the ear. 
liest times, to perpetuate and keep alive through the ages the won- 
drous story of Christ’s coming, leaving nothing to be forgotten or to 
fade into uncertain myths ; otherwise how know we, or they, that 
the world would not be bending now before a human god-babe as 
in Thibet — a figment, no doubt, of the once true belief received 
from Adam, but which in the lapse of time has run into idolatry, 
joss-sticks, and legends ? All thanks and praise and honor to the 
Church, who by the feasts, fasts, and festivals of her ecclesiastical 
year, her Divine Sacraments, her offices, her ritual, the fashion of 
her sacerdotal garments, and in all things else, great and small, has 
kept before the world intact — and reiterated from century to cen- 
tury, unchanged and unchanging — the grand events of the dealings 
of God with His creatures ; above all, the love which turned away 
wrath in the Person of His well-beloved Son, who suffered all things, 
even death, for its salvation. 

Mrs. Weston was too much absorbed by her plans for the gaieties 

(151) 


152 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


of the approaching fashionable season, which was to open with great 
brilliance immediately after New Year’s, to spare any of her valu- 
able time to what she called the monastic notions of Christmas ; of 
course she always made presents, and threw money around among 
the servants, and would give a child’s party — that being expected ; 
none of it done, however, with the intention of making any one 
happier, but because other people did so, and it was therefore her 
duty, as laid down in the social code. 

Mrs. Weston had great executive ability in her sphere of action ; 
and as she heard from one and another of her fashionable friends of 
all that was in anticipation, she felt at once upon her mettle and 
determined that she would lead, as usual, let others try as they 
might to outstrip her. She had yet numerous duty-calls to make 
which kept her much occupied, but every day lessened the lists on 
the pages of her visiting-book, and she scored out the names with 
businesslike regularity and a feeling of intense relief; for of all 
things she hated to carry social debts into the new year. There 
were many inquiries for Sybil, and much curiosity expressed to see 
her, it being rumored abroad that she was very beautiful, and whis- 
pered that she would be the “ bright, particular star ” of the season. 
But it was Mrs. Weston’s plan to keep Sybil out of sight until her 
actual debut ; she wished her to burst upon the world in a way to 
dazzle and astonish it, hoping that the sudden incense of its admira- 
tion would work the desired spell upon her and give her an appe- 
tite for its seductive pleasures — that is, in a degree befitting her 
wealth and station. 

One day Sybil’s dresses came home, and Mrs. Weston was in 
raptures to find that the modiste had more than fulfilled her expec- 
tations regarding their style and finish. She held each one up be- 
fore her step-daughter, expatiating on their elegance and beauty ; 
she was in her element, hence voluble and almost eloquent ; but 
Sybil’s heart sunk at the very thought of the possible experiences 
that might come to her when arrayed in them and thrown amidst 
scenes to which she was unaccustomed. Mrs. Weston was provoked 
almost into sharply chiding her for want of appreciation of all the 
magnificence outspread before her, and we frankly admit that from 
a certain stand-point it was irritating; but it was not indifference or 


TANGLED PA THS. 


153 


ingratitude that caused Sybil’s apathy, but a dread of the untried 
and nearer acquaintance with a condition of life for which she felt 
herself unfitted, and which was, as she viewed it, antagonistic to all 
of her preconceived ideas of a faithful observance of her religious 
duties. How strangely fashioned was the girl’s cross ! How cun- 
ningly and alluringly the opulence of the world’s splendor wreathed 
it about — but never hiding it from her watchful, innocent eyes ! She 
was very silent, for to have expressed her sentiments as she might 
have done to her own mother had she been living, would only seem 
like a thankless return for all the pains that had been taken for her 
sake, and give offense. Even Maum Barbara, whose African in- 
stincts reveled in splendor and gauds, was provoked witlmher young 
mistress for not being in the same state of wild admiration that she 
was, and she did not fail to call her special attention to each dress as 
she folded it — touching the rich things reverently — to be laid away, 
or hung up in the great cedar wardrobe in the dressing-room ; utter- 
ing a profusion of misplaced adjectives and superlatives, whose ab- 
surd climax made Sybil smile when she felt more like weeping. 
Mrs. Weston, coldly displeased, was going away, only stopping long 
enough to give some final instructions to Barbara about the folding 
of the trained skirts, when Sybil, obeying a sudden impulse, ap- 
proached her and told her how much she thanked her for the trouble 
she had been at for her, then held up her face to be kissed. 

“ I am glad that you are awake, Sybil ; I thought you were really 
asleep all this time ! ” answered her step-mother, coldly, and not yet 
appeased. 

“ Oh, no, mamma, I was so wide awake that I saw every one of 
those beautiful dresses ; but I have always dressed simply — ” 

“ 1 am glad at any rate to learn that you admire them, and hope 
you’ll appreciate them yet more when you wear them. Most girls 
would be half distracted by the possession of such splendid toilettes. 
But ta-ta ; I have to finish my calls to-day, and fear that I shall be 
late,” said Mrs. Weston, who had purposely interrupted Sybil, dread- 
ing to hear some “ convent platitudes ” about the sins of worldliness. 

Then she sailed away, the elegantly embroidered train of her 
cashmere morning-dress sweeping the floor majestically after her. 

It was a relief to Sybil when the last shimmering silk dress, the 
7 * 


154 


TANGLED PA THS. 


last gauze costume du bal , the very last of the piled-up confusion of 
her embarras de richesses, was out of sight, safely stowed away in 
the cedar wardrobe, with the key turned upon them — the last pre- 
caution of Maum Barbara’s — and she hoped to hear no more of them, 
for a space at least. 

After this, Sybil was left very much to her own devices, and she 
had time to gladden Miss Arnold’s lonely existence not only with 
flowers, but by a daily visit, which the forlorn little woman began to 
look for now with longing, as if sunshine were brought with each 
coming that, little by little, shone through the crevices of her shad- 
owed life and warmed its shrunken humanity. Not that Sybil had 
the least idea that she was doing a blessed and meritorious work — 
and how acceptable to Heaven would never be known on earth — 
she only obeyed the impulses of a sweet charity whose fairness was 
all untarnished by the world, which made it a pain to her to see any 
one lonely or dejected. Edyth — her studies suspended, everything 
except deportment, which Miss Arnold always found the most diffi- 
cult of all, such a born Bohemian was the child — was much with her 
sister, coming and going as the humor suited her, but often held quiet 
and eager, while Sybil told her pleasant stories of her school-days at 
“ Holy Cross,” about the gentle nuns, the girls, the chapel, the holi- 
days, with now and then a touching old legend of the old, old times, 
to which she listened wonder-eyed. “ Why couldn’t other people 
make it pleasant for her too ? ” she asked herself ; they scolded her, 
and ruled her — or tried to do so — with a rod of iron ; whether it 
was her catechism, or turning out her toes to the proper angle, it 
was all the same, and all disagreeable and hateful. But Sybil talked 
and laughed, and sung, and was as merry as a cricket, and yet she 
was learning things from her — and taking pleasure in them too — 
that Miss Arnold had been trying for two years to pound into her 
head by harsh, well-meant restraints, all in vain. This was Edyth’s 
reasoning, but she did not flout Miss Arnold as much as might have 
been expected from her conclusions, for she saw and noted her 
sister’s gentle, pleasant ways toward her, and while she wondered 
how in the world she could endure the “ uninteresting old thing,” 
her own brusqueness and savagery were influenced, in imperceptible 
degrees, by the example. Maum Barbara came and talked when- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


155 


ever a chance presented itself ; she evidently thought that Sybil had 
brought a new regeneration to the house of Weston that would re- 
deem the disgrace of her master’s misalliance , as she had got it set- 
tled in her head his second marriage was, because it was a fixed idea 
of her class that “ All them women up yonder at the No’th was po’ 
white folks ” — than which, there was nothing that your proud, pam- 
pered Southern darkey had greater contempt for in the ante-bellum 
days. But now, seeing all the splendor of the preparations that 
Mrs. Weston was making for the daughter of the house, she was 
ready to fall down and worship her, and was “ so lifted up that she 
felt like a gal, and knowed she could dance a hoe-down ekal to the 
spryest nigger goin’ 1 ” Her extravagances of speech and gesture 
often won a merry laugh from Sybil ; but Maummy before long learned 
with quick tact that there were certain things and persons which 
must be spoken of respectfully or not at all — a lesson she needed, 
for like most old family servants of that time she allowed herself a 
latitude of expression and a breadth of critical remark about her 
superiors, even to their very faces, which they sometimes laughed 
at, but which were sometimes so unbearable as to bring her to grief 
by a compulsory exile to the “ quarters” at Westover for such time 
as the provocation demanded, a punishment that brought her quickly 
to submission — for, “ raised ’mongst white folks, she never could 
a-bear the comp’ny of corn-field niggas ! ” she avowed. 

The Waites frequently ran in ; and Sybil, as welcome to them all as 
the bluebird in spring, often flew to their roof-tree, with music in her 
laugh, brightness in her eyes, and wonderful secrets to talk over and 
listen to, at unexpected times ; for every one was possessed of a 
secret at this time which would be only revealed by its blossoming 
on the Christmas-tree, about which she and no one else had to be 
consulted. Even Natalie showed her, sub rosa, some odds and ends 
of wonderful embroidery in silk and gold, that she worked on only 
when quite alone, which were to be joined together in designs known 
only to herself, an occupation that seemed to make her, like one 
afar off, catch some of the radiance of the Star that shone a sign ot 
reconciliation and peace to the nations — shone even upon upturned 
eyes blind to its meaning then as now. 

Sybil often hoped that the confidence into which Natalie had 


TANGLED PATHS. 


156 

been surprised by the picture of the Mater Dolorosa would be re- 
sumed ; but it was not. She neither invited nor repelled Sybil’s 
friendly advances; her surface-life was so calm and cold that the 
girl almost fancied the scene of last week to be a dream of her 
imagination. She could not understand how the hungry, desperate 
soul is sometimes forced by nature to cry out, then rush back to 
hide itself in its impenetrable cells, where no chink lets in the light. 
Finding how it was, there was nothing that Sybil could do except to 
implore for her the protection and assistance of Our Blessed Lady 
of Perpetual Succor, that by her remembrance of her Divine Son’s 
bitter Passion, and her tender compassion for the souls He bought 
with an infinite price, this His creature might be brought out of 
darkness into the light of truth. Somehow, at times, a feeling of 
awful responsibility grew upon her for Natalie, which was shadowed 
in her sweet face, whenever it asserted itself, by a grave, introverted 
expression, the reflection of an unuttered prayer that breathed a 
spirit of sacrifice and an earnest desire for the end so hoped for. 
“ How gladly would I give my life if it would avail for her conver- 
sion ! ” were the words that would have shaped it, had she given it 
speech. For it seemed so monstrous and terrible a thing to Sybil 
for a being of God’s creation to doubt His existence, to trample on 
the tremendous price that its salvation cost, and lift up its head in 
proud revolt against the infinite majesty of the Deity, that the idea 
gave her unrest, and even made her dream of frightful things — 
dreams from which she only awoke in time to be saved from im- 
pending horrors in her wild attempts to save Natalie. She could 
not combat error by argument ; she was neither learned enough in 
theology or ethics to strive with an intellect far higher than her own, 
even could she have penetrated the icy armor of the woman’s nature ; 
but she could pray, she could offer her Communions, she could say 
her rosary daily for her, and was not God’s grace far beyond all 
human experience and knowledge ? Did He not sometimes make 
use of the small and despised things of the earth to work out His 
grand purposes? Had He not said that “ faith not greater than a 
grain of mustard-seed could remove mountains ” ? Why, then, need 
she ever lose courage when God’s almighty promises gave certain 
hope ? And thus, with childlike simplicity, she was content to 


TANGLED PATHS. 


15 7 


watch and wait His holy will. These were some of the many 
thoughts that came to Sybil in the quiet of her own room, when all 
distractions were shut out ; that pervaded her intentions at Mass, 
for during this interlude of almost absolute freedom from the usual 
conventional regulations of the house, she went every morning to 
the “children’s Mass” at St Mark’s; and entered with strong de- 
sire into the purpose of her Communions, that were ever present in 
her ordinary acts of piety, more fervently, perhaps, in that of the 
rosary than any other. 

And now, as if to add to Sybil’s happiness, her father was getting 
acquainted with her. She had, lately, on two or three occasions 
when they happened to be alone together, on looking up suddenly, 
found him watching her with a kindly and tender expression in his 
usually cold gray eyes that made her heart leap, and once she had 
surprised him into a pleasant chat which he appeared to enjoy for a 
few moments ; then remembering something, the cold mask was 
again put on, and he retired to his library, or went away to his busi- 
ness in his usual abrupt way. She stole in one or two mornings, 
meaning to breakfast with him, if he did not repulse her — spread 
his newspaper out to dry — a thing that Peter frequently neglected 
to do — and placed a flower or two upon his plate, knowing his 
love for them ; then with some scraps of her Christmas sewing 
on her lap, pretending to be very busy, she sat by the fireside, 
glowing in her fresh young loveliness, to await him. At first it 
was a shock to Mr. Weston to find her there ; his heart gave 
a great throb, for it brought so vividly before him some of the 
bright pictures of his brief happy past ; but he only said, in 
answer to her timid “ Good-morning ” : c< Is not this too early for 
you, Sybil ? ” 

“ I have been accustomed to early rising all my life, papa ; and 
if I may — if you will allow me — I would so like to give you your 
coffee every morning.” 

He did not say no, but drew on his boots that Peter brought in, 
and glanced over the paper while breakfast was being placed upon 
the table. He did not cast aside the flowers upon his plate, but 
held them up, inhaled their fragrance, and ended by fastening them 
in his button-hole. Then Sybil poured out his coffee, while he, 


iS8 


TANGLED PA THS. 


unaccustomed to small delicate attentions, felt as awkward as a 
school-boy, although they were offered by his own daughter. 

“ Sugar and cream, papa ? ” 

“ One small lump, and very little cream,” he answered, briefly, as 
he ran his eye over the stock report in the paper, which he had not 
yet laid down. 

“ Now, papa, is it made to suit you ? I will not have to ask you 
again if it does, you know.” 

“ Yes, it is very nice; thanks !” he replied, after a sip of the hot 
coffee. 

Then he ate his breakfast in silence after seeing her attended to. 
Taking his breakfast alone year after year had made Mr. Weston 
more taciturn at this meal than any other, and now he seemed quite 
to forget her presence, over his chops and muffins, and looked up 
with surprise in his eyes when she asked him to let her fill his cup 
again. Thus rerninded, he fancied that she was not eating anything, 
and called to Peter sharply to know why he was not attending to 
Miss Weston. Peter chuckled to himself with delight, and handed 
things to Sybil with a zeal so well feigned that one would have 
thought he had really neglected attending to his duty, when he had 
been all the time indefatigable in his efforts to help her profusely to 
hot chops and hot muffins as they were brought in relays from the 
pantry, suggesting cream-toast, a broiled bird and whatever 
delicacy he could think of, to her amusement — for Sybil, like her 
father, had not been accustomed to certain sorts of attention, and 
Peter’s seemed so superfluous on the simple occasion of a breakfast 
for two, that her face dimpled with smiles despite her efforts to look 
grave. 

But at last the meal was over, and Mr. Weston was about leaving 
the room, when an idea occurred to him which brought him back, 
and, standing near Sybil, he began to fumble in his pocket. 

“ Have you forgotten something, papa?” 

“ Yes, yes, I forgot all about its being Christmas,” he answered, 
opening his porte-monnaie , from which he took four large gold pieces 
and laid them before her. “ Do what you please with them ; young 
people like to spend money at Christmas.” 

“Oh, thank you, dear papa. I will take one. I shall not know 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


159 


what to do with all this l” she said, gathering up the shining coins 
in her slender fingers. But when she would have handed three of 
them back he was gone. 

“ ’Taint no use, young missis,” said Peter, who had watched the 
whole proceeding while seeming only intent on clearing off the 
table ; “ he wouldn’t like it ; and wouldn’t take ’em back if you got 
upon your knees and asked him ; he’s that strong-willed, is master. 
You’ll fin’ plenty of use for that money one way or another fo’ you 
know it.” 

“ Do you think so, Uncle Peter?” said Sybil, dreamily. 

“’Deed an’ I does, Miss. I’ve knowed Master ever since he was 
borned. I knows every cut of his eyes, an’ I seen somethin’ in 
’em this mornin’ that made me know he was ’joiced to see you here 
when he corned in ; an’, my little missis, you be sure an’ come 
agin.” 

“ I will, Uncle Peter. Please bring me my basket of flowers.” 

“ Thank you, little missis,” answered Peter, as he rolled his eyes 
solemnly over his shoulder to make sure there was no one listening ; 
“ my master’s that lonesome an’ lost from havin’ nobody to draw 
him out like, that his riches aint no good to him. ’Taint human !” 
Then he went out and brought in the flowers. 

Sybil did not exactly understand the old fellow’s drift, but she 
made up her mind to breakfast with her father every morning unless 
he forbade it. As she ran lightly up-stairs the coins jingled in her 
work-basket and the sound recalled to her mind that there was 
wanted a new chalice at “ Holy Cross,” which this very money 
would enable her to purchase, and send — her Christmas-gift — to 
the altar. She had no idea of the value of a handsome silver, gold- 
lined chalice ; perhaps she had not enough money ; perhaps more 
than enough ; she could not tell, but would consult her aunt that 
very day, and together they would ascertain all about it. And then, 
if there should be anything left over after the chaiice was bought, 
she would spend it in holiday souvenirs for the children, for Natalie, 
Miss Arnold, and — well, she did not suppose that she could do all 
that she desired, but she hoped it would go a great way, these large, 
generous, glittering gold pieces ; and while she arranged fresh 
flowers before the blest image of the Virgin Mother, the thought 


i6o 


TANGLED PA TIJS. 


that her gift would be consecrated to the use of the Divine Mystery 
of the altar infused an exalted sentiment of joy into her mind, above 
all the rest. Wants artificial, if not real, are the outgrowth of the 
possession of money ; one is never at a loss for opportunities of 
spending generously, prodigally, or selfishly, according to the out- 
cropping of one’s nature ; to spend it so that it will turn to bitter- 
ness when its misapplied possibilities come back like ghosts to 
haunt the conscience and condemn us hereafter, is one thing ; to 
make friends of it by its uses according to God’s grand design is 
another, and blessed is he who discerns how he may turn the 
“ mammon of unrighteousness ” into heavenly treasures which 
neither corrupt nor rust, and which thieves can not steal, for they 
are garnered for the great day of reckoning in the eternal remem- 
brance of God. 

Studies being suspended, Edyth had permission to go to her 
Aunt Waite’s whenever Sybil did. Miss Arnold enjoyed herself 
writing letters and turning old dresses ; and Maum Barbara was 
never tired of telling, whoever she could get to listen to her, of the 
“gran’ Chris’mas doin’s on the plantations in the ole times, when 
ladies was ladies, an’ gentlemen was gentlemen, an’ niggers was 
better’n any po’ white folks that was ever borned.” 

Then, all at once, Mrs. Weston bethought herself of the juvenile 
ball ; “ it was an awful bore,” she said, “ but other people were 
having them, so must she.” She stayed home the greater part of 
a day to put • things entrain , write orders, engage the music, and 
make out a list of those who were to be invited, which she gave to 
Sybil, requesting that she and Miss Arnold would direct the cards. 
Edyth and Clara were to receive, and Sybil was invited to be pres- 
ent — as only juveniles were expected — to help to entertain and 
make things pleasant, which she very gladly consented to, having a 
great love for children. There was not only a commotion at the 
Weston house, but also among the young Waites ; Edyth was to 
wear silk, lace, and jewels ! Clara, simple white, with blue ribbons, 
which she did not at all fancy ; she knew that she’d look shabby ; 
and Edyth — who really loved her cousin, and wanted her to be as 
fine as herself — excited still more her dissatisfaction, until it rose 
to such a pitch that she burst out crying and told her mother that 


TANGLED PA THS. 


161 


she wouldn’t go at all unless she had a blue silk underdress and a 
white gauze one to wear over it. 

“ I shall be quite satisfied, my dear, for you to stay at home,” 
replied Mrs. Waite, who, although grieved at the disposition of her 
little girl, would most gladly have refused the invitation for her, 
could she have done so without giving offense, not approving at all 
of the children’s parties of the period- The very idea, however, of 
giving up the ball had the effect of silencing Clara’s complainings, 
but not her regrets, which were in high revolt against the simplicity 
of the toilette proposed for her ; “ for,” as she argued, “ what would 
be thought, and what would every one say, should I stay at home, 
when my name is on the cards with Edyth’s, and I expected to re- 
ceive with her ? If I were sick, or anything for an excuse, I don’t 
think I’d much mind not going.” And there was no more heard 
about the blue silk slip and gauze overdress. 

“ Do you suppose the children will come early -enough to enjoy 
some of the little games we used to have at f Holy Cross,’ Miss Ar- 
nold ? ” inquired Sybil, when she ran into Miss Arnold’s room after 
breakfast with her usual offering of flowers. 

Miss Arnold looked surprised and flustered ; and Sybil, not un- 
derstanding why, hastened to say : “ Oh, they are very nice ! and 
we used to enjoy them so much ! ” 

“ I don’t know, my dear Miss Weston ; I am sure you’ll please 
to excuse me from giving an opinion ; but since you’re so kind to me 
I will say — sub rosa, you know — that children do nothing but dance 
now, and do all that grown-up young ladies and gentlemen do • — 
in fact , there are no children ! ” answered Miss Arnold, while her 
curls, ribbon-ends, and her thin voice all quivered in unison. 

“ No children ! why, my dear Miss Arnold, one to hear you would 
think another Herod had come to judgment and exterminated them 
from the face of the earth ! ” said Sybil, laughing. 

“ Fashion is a tyrant worse than Herod, for it too often puts to 
death the innocence, and freshness, and simplicity of little children. 
It is not so in my country ; they are kept in the school-room and 
nursery, and are under subjection, and wear pinafores, and live 
simply, Miss Weston ; go to bed early, and are obliged to exercise a 
great deal in the open air. Oh dear ! the system here, among the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


T62 

rich, is so .very, very different ! ” were the words that escaped from 
Miss Arnold’s lips with strange volubility, as if they had been a long 
time pent up, only waiting for the opportunity to find voice. 

Sybil had seen and heard much of Miss Arnold’s Old World hab- 
its, and had frequently thought that her system was too strictly 
mechanical and its restraints unnecessarily severe ; but she made 
no reply, hoping that things were not quite so bad as she represented 
them, and only colored by her prejudice ; for she could not bear to 
think of children otherwise than as she had seen and known them. 
“ Poor Miss Arnold,” she thought, “ has been embittered by her 
lonely life and ceaseless sedentary work, and her daily conflict with 
undisciplined, pampered, ignorant, and selfish natures ; is it any 
wonder that she thinks there are no children ? ” She began to talk 
of other things, trifled around the room a few minutes, then went 
down to the ball-room to see the Christmas garlands, bright with 
holly-berries, hung over the cornices, door-frames, and mirrors, her 
mind made* up to try and introduce the pretty holiday games of 
“ Holy.Cross ” that evening and satisf}/' herself that there were some 
children left in the world. 

The ball-room was brilliantly lighted, and looked like Fairyland. 
Sybil herself was permitted to wear her swiss-muslin distribution 
dress, with a few natural flowers in her hair, for she was. not yet out, 
and it made no difference ; Edyth glittered in azure and gauzes, fine 
laces and jewels, turquoise, and chip-diamonds set in gold; she was 
puffed and bedizened, and looked as conscious as a peacock when 
his feathers are spread to the sun. Clara did not appear in the 
least “ shabby,” but extremely pretty in her fine, tastefully-made 
French muslin, and broad, rich Roman sash of delicate blue, rose- 
color, and brown ; Natalie had twined a garland of lilies-of-the-valley 
for her head, fastened a cluster of them at her waist, and looped her 
transparent overdress with the same fair emblems of innocence, the 
effect of which was really elegant and graceful, because so in keeping 
with the youthfulness of the wearer. 

Sybil’s heart failed her more and more as the little men and 
women collected, and she noted their society airs and graces, their 
precocious manners, and absurdly extravagant toilettes. She saw 
them flirting with each other, and moving here and there, saying 


TANGLED PATHS. 


163 

pleasant things to one and another ; she heard malicious, envious 
remarks made of this girl or that boy which made her gasp. 
What, then ! Were these prematurely old worldlings — blase and 
faded out of their childhood and innocence ? Their very laugh was 
hard, unreal, and noisy, meaning anything but mirth ; their language 
was full of slang, their forward arts to attract attention, undisguised 
by even a show of modesty on the part of the girls ; while the 
youngsters, their breath redolent of tobacco, made their bows, 
uttered vapid compliments, selected their partners for the waltz and 
German with an impertinent insouciance positively absurd. 

“ I can not believe it is as bad as it seems ! There must be some 
children in all this crowd. I’ll try to find them,” thought Sybil, 
flitting about, trying to get up an old-fashioned square dance, or 
engage their interest in the games she proposed ; but — “ Thanks, 
no ; I'm engaged for the first valse and ever so many ahead ; ” or, 
“I’m going to dance the German ; thanks ! ” — was all she got, and 
from the way they looked and smiled they evidently thought Miss 
Weston was a countrified simpleton. And when the round dances be- 
gan, and the supper was over, and the “ German ” opened, what with 
the previous fatigues, the ices, candied fruits, salads, bon-bons , and 
cakes they had devoured, their jealousy about “ favors,” partners, and 
the heart-burnings that possessed them, their whirling around in the 
heated atmosphere, the precocious heads of the girls reclining upon 
the shoulders of the precocious lads in whose arms they trod the dizzy 
measure, Sybil thought they looked much as she imagined the chil- 
dren did who, with eager, half-frightened faces, danced out of Ham- 
lin town to the music of the pied piper’s magic flute, danced away 
after him to his cavern under the mountain, where they danced no 
more. She had read the old German story years ago, and forgotten 
it ; but this scene, here under her father’s roof, suddenly brought it 
up before her with the same feeling of childish horror that had then 
inspired her, but in a less degree, yet disagreeable enough. Sybil 
wondered if the grown-up “ society” people danced together in this 
style, and if she would be expected to do so ; and if so, how 
should she manage to escape an ordeal that, with her conventual 
ideas of modesty, would be, she felt, so utterly repugnant to her 
feelings ? She had expected to enjoy herself at this so-called 


164 


TANGLED PATHS. 


child’s party, but alas ! there were no children there, but only little 
men and women of the world ; even Edyth was so metamorphosed 
by her finery and her fashionable airs that Sybil could scarcely rec- 
ognize her ; while Clara — well ! Sybil wondered where and how she 
had caught all the nonsense and the little affectations that she played 
off to attract attention ; and while she concluded that it must be in- 
nate, she no longer felt any surprise at her aunt’s objections to chil- 
dren’s balls. The inexperienced convent girl was glad when it was 
all over, glad to get back to the sweet peace of her room, where 
she could quiet the fevered disturbance of her heart at the feet of 
the Blessed Mother of Help. “ Should she ever get to love the 
gaieties of the world ? ” she wondered ; could they ever take the 
place in her mind now occupied by sentiments and hopes so widely 
antithetical to them in substance and effect ? Ah, she was weak ! 
She feared herself ! Why might not her feet slip on this flowery 
path as others’ had ? Accustomed to it all, would things appear to 
her then as now? Familiarity with danger dulls one’s perceptions 
to its fatal consequences. Would not she forget the pitfalls under 
the flowers? Sybil’s sigh was like a sob. Oh, if she were only 
back at “ Holy Cross ! ” But she was here, and if strength were 
only given, she must prove her faith by trial. “ Ah ! how much 
easier,” she imagined, “ to bear a grim, rough cross, than one of the 
world’s making, all hidden by roses, whose concealed thorns will 
pierce and sting to wildness ! ” For it is hard to realize merit in a 
cross of the world’s fashioning ; short-sighted ones thinking that un- 
less they see the hand stretched out from behind the cloud that 
lays the cross upon their shoulders, it must rise up out of the bot- 
tomless pit, and is no cross at all, forgetting that even so we may 
be tried by the Divine permission, as was Job by the powers of 
evil. The day was dawning when Sybil fell asleep, and when she 
awoke Maum Barbara tapped at her door and told her that it was 
“ long parst nine o’clock.” She knew that her father must have 
gone to the bank, and she did not therefore hurry in dressing. It 
was too late for the last Mass at St. Mark’s ; her step-mother had 
given orders not to be disturbed until 12 o’clock ; and Sybil, after 
eating her breakfast, put on her things to go spend the day with her 
aunt, where, as usual, she found warm welcome. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


165 

Late in the twilight, when the “ Knights of the Round Table ” 
had assembled, and were in merry consultation in the school-room 
over holiday games and certain masquerading frolics appropriate to 
Christmas festivities that they expected to take part in, and Natalie 
had gone away to her room, as was her habit every day at this hour, 
either to enjoy a short period of solitude to brood over her dead 
past, or to write in her journal — nobody knew which, or ever ques- 
tioned her thereof ; and while waiting for her aunt, who had gone 
out with Clara to attend to some household affair or other that 
required special attention, Sybil went into the empty drawing-room, 
which was all in a soft glow from the red coals in the grate, and the 
silence fell restfully around her. She went over to the bow-window 
and parted the curtains to look out at the weather, hoping to see 
the stars ; but it was snowing heavily, and she felt a shock of dis- 
appointment, for on the morrow she was going out with her aunt 
to see about the purchase of a chalice and other things, and she 
knew that her step-mother would want the carriage all day ; she 
thought of the street cars, but then it would have been so much 
more pleasant to walk in the cold, crisp air, with sunlight over- 
head ; however, they would go, all the same, and could attain the 
object of their errand just as effectually under the shadow of a 
cloudy day ; besides, what sort of a Christmas would it be without 
snow — white, spotless snow, symbolic of the ineffable purity of Him 
who was born in Bethlehem, and of the swaddling-clothes in which 
His Mother’s hands enwrapped Him ? It was a beautiful gift, or 
grace, with which Sybil was endowed, that without effort or thought 
she was not only en rapport with nature under all its aspects, but 
spiritualized, as poet or saint might, whatever she looked upon ; 
not that we by any means claim saintship for her, we only mean 
that in a degree she was inspired as St. Francis of Assisium was, to 
adore the Creator through His works animate and inanimate. Then 
her thoughts wandered away to “ Holy Cross,” and she pictured to 
herself all that the dear nuns and her companions might be doing. 
She knew that they were in the chapel at this hour singing the 
Litany of Loretto ; she almost fancied she heard the soft strains of 
the organ and the sweet, fervent voices that rose and fell as the 
blessed titles of “ Mary, full of grace,” rang out on the night, and 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


1 66 

the plaintive “ Ora pro nobis ” touchingly responded. Hidden 
there behind the curtains, her face close against the window-pane, 
thinking, thinking, the girl did not notice that a lady had entered 
the room — a lady in deep mourning raiment, the texture of which 
was threadbare and altogether insufficient to protect her against the 
inclemency of the weather— whose thin, pinched features were pale, 
and whose eyes were sunken and full of anxious sorrow. 

“ Not in ! ” she said to Tom, when he answered the bell and told 
her that Mrs. Waite was out, in such a tone of grieved disappoint- 
ment that his old heart was moved to sympathy ; having been 
tutored for many years by his excellent mistress, he was quick to 
discover unspoken woe by its signs. 

“ No, Missis, but I ’spect her every minit. Won’t you come in 
an’ set down ? ” 

“ Oh, I’m afraid to wait. What shall I do ? It will be too 
late ! too late ! ” 

“ Oh, no, ma’am, it won’t ; just come in outen the cold an’ set 
by the parlor fire; it’s comfor’ble like in here,” said Tom soothingly, 
as he conducted her in and wheeled a cushioned chair near the fire. 

“ Thank you. Don’t light the gas, please ! ” said the low, sad 
voice, as Tom in the excess of his hospitality was about kindling 
the chandelier into a blaze ; he desisted, gave the fire a stir, and 
after again assuring the lady that Mrs. Waite would be home in a 
few minutes, and that he would tell her that she was there when he 
opened the door to let her in, he went away, satisfied in his own 
mind that the stranger was “ broken-down gentle folks ; ” on a quick 
discovery of whom, under the most adverse circumstances, he greatly 
prided himself. 

Presently Mrs. Waite came in. Tom told her sure enough that 
a lady was waiting to see her ; and while Clara ran up stairs to lay 
off her things and hunt up Sybil, Mrs. Waite went directly into the 
drawing-room ; but the light was so uncertain that she could not 
distinguish her visitor, and was reaching up to turn on the gas when 
she heard some one say : 

“ Please don’t, Mrs. Waite ! ” — a voice so sad and yet with such a 
muffled ring of agony in it that her hand was instantly arrested ; 
and turning in the direction whence it came, she perceived the dim 


TA NGLED PA TBS. 1 67 

outline of a small, dark figure, and indistinctly the white pallor of a 
face whose features she could not distinguish. 

“ I think I ought to know that voice,” she said, offering her hand, 
which was clasped by attenuated fingers that felt more like the claws 
of a half-frozen bird than those of a human being. 

“ I am Miriam Hunter,” said the low-voiced woman. 

“ Miriam, my child ! My little i sweetheart,’ as I used to call 
you, where have you been these long years ? ” said Mrs. Waite, 
folding the delicate form in her arms, and kissing the white, sorrow- 
ful face. “Ah, you wanted to surprise me here in the dark ! Now 
that you have done so, we will have a light, that I may see the dear 
little face I used to call c sunshine ’ — ” 

“ Once,” interrupted the woman ; “ but there’s no sunshine now. 
All is changed since then. Do not make a light yet ; I can not 
tell you what brings me here if there’s a light.” 

“ My dear child, light or no light, as you please, only tell me if it 
is so that I can help you ? I don’t know how things have gone 
with you since — since your marriage, but depend upon one thing : 
whatever is changed, and however, I am your true and constant 
friend.” 

“ Oh, Mrs. Waite ! ” she said, after a painful pause, “ I do not 
deserve your friendship. I can not tell you all that followed my 
willful disobedience of the counsels of my mother ; my imagination 
was fevered and my judgment darkened by the sentimental romances 
that I fed upon, and I had no desire except to realize one for myself 
You know all the trouble that followed my imprudent intercourse 
with the handsome stranger I met at Lake George, whose acquaint, 
ance was purely accidental ; and how blind and deaf I was to all that 
friends afterward told me of his habits and pursuits. I thought they 
were prejudiced, because they did not think him a sufficiently bril. 
liant match for me, and — it ended, you know, by my eloping with 
him. Oh, Mrs. Waite ! I can not tell you all the sorrows of that 
imprudent marriage without speaking of the errors of the dead.” 

“ Is your husband dead, Miriam ? ” asked Mrs. Waite, holding 
both the thin, trembling hands in the warm, loving clasp of hers. 

“ He died a year ago ; died of a wound inflicted by a drunken 
associate ; died suddenly, miserably !” she said in broken accents. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


1 68 

“ Then I came back to Washington with my child. Nothing — not 
a cent — was left of my fortune. I had just barely enough to bury 
him and bring me home. I call it home from habit, for I have no 
home. I have supported myself by sewing and embroidery when- 
ever I could get work.” 

“ Miriam, my child, why did you not come at once to me ! your 
dear mother’s oldest friend ! ” said Mrs. Waite, inexpressibly 
shocked. 

“ I have brought it all upon myself ; I had helped to break my 
mother’s heart, and I was ashamed, and too proud to let my case 
be known to any who had known me in prosperity. But now — oh, 
Mrs. Waite ! — I am starving ! I could bear it alone ; I should be 
glad to die even so, but my boy is sinking fast for the want of food 
that it is beyond my means to get ; there’s a film over his beautiful 
eyes, and lie’s too weak to cry ; he only moans and moans, and his 
moans get fainter every hour ; I have no fire to warm him, and — 
to-morrow — we shall have no shelter, for I have not been able to 
pay my rent and we are to be turned out.” 

She shed no tears, but there was a frightened expression of woe 
in her face as of one drowning from a wreck, which was infinitely 
more touching ; and Mrs. Waite gathered her to her bosom, her 
tears falling warm upon the frozen agony of the face that rested 
there, but only for a moment ; there was no time to lose in the in- 
dulgence of such sympathy when prompt action was needed. 

“ I will be back in ten minutes, my child. I will go with you to 
your sick child,” said Mrs. Waite, as she rose from the side of the 
grief-stricken woman and hurried out of the room. 

Sybil, there in the bow- window, hidden by the heavy curtains, had 
heard all that we have related. At first she did not think it neces- 
sary to leave the room, as her being there could make no possible 
difference ; but after her aunt came in and she discovered the deli- 
cate and confidential nature of the interview, she had not the cour- 
age to show herself, fearing that by so doing she would only add to 
the confusion of the broken-hearted woman whose trial in reveal- 
ing her circumstances was already sufficiently humiliating to her. 
Covered with confusion at being an accidental eavesdropper, Sybil 
had never felt so humiliated and uncomfortable in all her life before. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


169 , 

What should she do ? How repair the apparent meanness of her 
conduct ? A sudden idea seemed to make the way clear. Why 
should she not act upon the impulse ? She was too unworldly to 
think it over, or weigh it in the balance of selfishness and egotism, 
when a human heart was breaking before her eyes, and a human life 
drifting away that she might help to save. All thoughts of the 
chalice for the altar at “ Holy Cross,” and her anticipated enjoy- 
ment in presenting gifts to her friends, were swept away by the 
sight of this great human need so suddenly brought before her. But 
she must do quickly that to which she was moved. Her aunt would 
be back presently, and she wished no witness to the act. She 
opened her port-monnaie and took out three of the twenty-dollar 
gold pieces ; the room lay in shadow yet, and she flitted out from 
behind the dark crimson gloom of the curtains, going swiftly ; all 
the light that glowed out from the fire seemed to be gathered up by 
her golden hair and the shimmer of the pale, lustrous dress she had 
on ; and having paused an instant, slightly bending with infinite 
grace over the sorrowing woman, who had watched with dumb won- 
der the bright apparition as it approached, she pressed the money 
into her hand, whispering : “ You must forgive me ; I heard all ; 
take this, please, for your little sick boy’s sake,” and before a refusal 
could come, she had disappeared from the room. 

It was all as sudden and strange to Miriam Hunter as if the radi- 
ant form of one of God’s angels had issued out of the air before her, 
bringing her relief; who she might be, whether of earth or heaven, 
she could not tell ; all she really knew was, that there in her hand 
she held what would save her child, give him warmth, food, wine, 
life. She had not asked alms, but help had come by God’s mercy, 
and the stubborn pride of her nature was broken into deep thank- 
fulness and fast flowing tears at last. Oh, why would not Mrs. 
Waite come ? 

Mrs. Waite was hurriedly packing a basket with necessaries 
of all sorts, with milk and wine for the sick child, getting some 
warm wraps together, and hurrying Tom to fill another basket 
with wood and coal, to be ready to go with her, she did not know 
where. She peeped into the school-room and saw Sybil there, 
throned in the very center of the “ Knights of the Round Table,” 

8 


170 


TANGLED PA THS. 


looking radiantly happy (for Sybil was rejoicing in having had it 
practically manifested to her how blessed a thing it was to have 
money) ; Natalie had joined the merry group ; Clara flitted around 
like a butterfly, and hilarity prevailed. Then Mrs. Waite, seeing 
that all was right there, hastened down-stairs, wrapped a warm 
shawl around her shivering guest, and went quickly with her out of 
the house before she thought of asking whither they were going. 

“ Where is your home, dearest child ? ” she inquired, halting on 
the pavement, the snow beating into their faces, and powdering 
Tom’s white wool, as he followed with his basket of coal. 

“ Beyond the Navy Yard. It is a long distance, Mrs. Waite. 
Do not go ; see how it is snowing.’ * 

“ Go to the corner, Tom, and stop the next car. Distance is 
nothing, my child, since the invention of street-cars. I am certainly 
going home with you.” 

Miriam Hunter pressed the arm on which she leaned in mute 
thanks — her heart was too full for words ; then when the emotion 
subsided, and while they waited for the car, she told Mrs. Waite 
what had happened after she left the room ; “ but,” she added, “ I 
can not take the money ; I would have given it back then but for 
the surprise, and the young lady’s going instantly out of the room. 
Will you please take it back to her, with my best thanks ? ” 

“ Keep it, my child. It will not be missed by her, and she would 
be pained, I know, to have any fraction of it returned.” 

“ But see ! sixty dollars ! It is like taking advantage of a kind 
impulse.” 

“It is her happiness so to dispose of it, I am sure.” 

“ You know her then, perhaps, as I do not. Oh, Mrs. Waite ! 
kindness has been so rare a thing in my experience of late years 
that it almost frightens me. Who is this good angel, if I may 
ask ? ” 

“ She is my niece, Sybil Weston, who would shrink from any 
mention of her name, I am certain ; but knowing her as I do, I 
want you to accept her as a friend in whom you may confide. Ah ! 
here is the car at last ! ” 

Within a square or two of the terminus of the route they got out, 
and turning into a sparsely-built street that ran toward the river, 


TANGLED PA TMS. 


171 


they plodded on through the snow and storm, whose gusts some- 
times almost whirled them off their feet, and at length reached the 
poor abode where this once admired child of fortune had found a 
cheerless home. 

“ He’s a’most gone ! ” said the woman of the house, who had 
volunteered to sit with the sick child until his mother’s return. 

Relief indeed had come none too soon for the little sufferer, who 
lay on the bed, with glazed eyes and white, pinched features, feebly 
moaning — such a shrunken, pitiful little object, that he looked like 
a sad caricature of humanity. A few drops of wine and milk were 
carefully given, then Tom made a fire which soon tempered the 
penetrating icy temperature of the room ; again Mrs. Waite ad- 
ministered nourishment, this time wine-whey, which she had made 
as soon as the fire was kindled, and to the joy of the sorrowing 
young mother, who knelt by the bedside watching the innocent 
sufferer with that eager, tender gaze which seems to have power 
in it to turn even death aside, it was swallowed. 

The child had no disease ; he was only starving, and would have 
died just as certainly as he might have done of small-pox if relief 
had not come at the moment it did. 

Mrs. Waite did not go away until she had seen the feeble, failing 
strength of the young mother replenished with suitable nourishment, 
and warning her to give her child food in small quantities and at 
regular intervals, she promised to come the next day, embraced her 
and started for home. On her way to the cars she noticed a green- 
grocer’s shop at the corner, and going in with Tom, asked some 
questions about the possibility of getting wood very early in the 
morning to be delivered at 1014, and on learning that the man him- 
self had a wood and coal yard near by, she ordered a certain quantity 
of each to be sent there for a lady who had a very sick child. Paid 
for in advance, with a douceur added to secure its being sent the 
first thing in the morning, the man readily promised to do as di- 
rected, but wisely kept to himself the fact that he had twice refused, 
and that harshly, to sell a small quantity of fuel to the poor lady at 
1014 on credit a week before. 

“ She had rich friends, then ! Oh, yes ; certainly she should have 
the fuel in time, if he had to carry it upon his back in a basket ! 


172 


TANGLED PA THS. 


He was a poor man, and had his interests to look after, and couldn’t 
afford to have bad debts ; but now — why, of course the poor woman 
must have fuel, such bitter weather as this ; ” and so the fellow went 
on lying until he worked himself into such a fever of zeal that he 
really imagined that he was about performing a most humane and 
benevolent action. Dickens tells of a man who used to brush his 
hair fiercely every morning with a very stiff brush, and thought by 
the process that he washed his face and hands, which he was never 
known by any accident to do ; so our green-grocer, by some curious 
rule of logic not laid down in the books, felt all the unction of good 
works which he did not perform, being one of a class not uncommon 
in this world of oddities. 

On the way home, Tom was obliged to ride on the platform of 
the car, for this was in the ante-bellum days, when negroes had need 
of seven-league boots if they had any distance to cover within a 
given time on business or otherwise, not being allowed a seat in the 
public conveyances which accommodated their superiors of the 
white race. The superiority was an open question sometimes, as 
was proved to-night. But Tom took his place, his brain untroubled 
by vexed questions, and too comfortable in his thick woolen over- 
coat and comfort, and his fur cap, which left nothing uncovered ex- 
cept the end of his nose to the pelting of the snow, to quarrel with 
fate. 

Within, a number of men were crowded, and Mrs. Waite found 
herself uncomfortably seated between two whose coarse, repulsive 
countenances bore evident marks of intoxication, and whose clothing 
was filthy beyond expression. There was no help for it ; there was 
no use in rising, to either stand or change her seat, for there were 
others equally obnoxious standing, swinging by the straps of the car 
all the way through, and she felt that it would be better to draw no 
attention to herself by any movement whatever ; so she whispered an 
“ Ave Maria” placing herself under the gracious and powerful pro- 
tection of the “ Help of Christians.” Presently the man on her left 
turned an offensive stare full on her face ; the other gave vent to a 
half-drunken laugh, and asked her “what o’clock it was?” Mrs. 
Waite quietly drew out her watch to see, when a rough paw was 
rudely thrust out in a quick attempt to seize it, but before he could 


TANGLED PA TIIS. 


173 


snatch it from her, all in an instant, before she could see how or by 
whom, the ruffian was grasped at his collar by a powerful hand, his 
wrists were suddenly compressed as in fingers of iron, and he was 
rushed to the rear of the car and tumbled out into the snow. His 
companion swore, and there was a coarse hubbub of indignation 
from those who were unacquainted with the cause of the summary 
ejectment of the man ; but a clear voice, with a foreign accent, 
rang above the noisy tumult, commanding instant attention. 

“ He insulted a lady, and I am ready to do the same favor to the 
next one ! ” were the words that were heard and understood by that 
motley crowd, who now saw the person who spoke — a tall, powerful 
man, who was broad-shouldered, and looked strong and determined 
enough to take up car, horse, and people all together, if he so 
minded, and work his will with them. 

He was one of those large, symmetrically-formed men, with force 
and intelligence and power in his face that attracts and repels at the 
same time ; handsome, withal swarthy and haughty, yet not a coun- 
tenance that one would altogether trust, for it had in it the ideal of 
an Apollyon, a devil who had not quite lost the glory of his primal 
state. 

“ Madame,” he said, in the gentlest and most courteous tones, 
touching his traveling-cap, “ pardon me, but you will find it more 
pleasant to sit on this side.” 

“ Thanks ! but shall I not be depriving you of your seat ? ” 

“Non. Prenez ma place , Madame , il y a encore un mauvais sajet 
a cole de vous ,” he answered, in French, not caring that which he 
had to warn her of should be understood by any except herself. 

Mrs. Waite made no further objection, but changed her seat. 
She saw that her protector was a gentleman, and she not only felt 
extremely grateful for his kindness, but was strangely attracted by a 
curious fascination to turn her eyes again and again to his proud, 
swarthy face, which baffled her usually keen perceptions, and left 
her in doubt by the antagonisms its lines indicated. This man, it 
was evident, had drunk the lees of existence by a course of supreme 
wickedness, or he had fought a desperate battle with his evil pas- 
sions ; every feature, every line of his face bore the moral scar of it, 
while his eyes — large, black, and wild, pent under heavy brows — 


i74 


TANGLED PA THS. 


looked like smouldering volcanoes. The more Mrs. Waite observed 
this singular face, the more it repelled her ; he might be Moor, or 
Jew, or Turk, or he might only be embrowned by travel. A heavy 
black moustache concealed his mouth, but he had a trick of sud- 
denly elevating his square chin which gave a look of insufferable 
haughtiness to his visage, and yet his voice was as soft and gentle in 
its inflexions as a woman’s. 

The car stopped, and Mrs. Waite arose to leave ; the stranger 
would have assisted her, but pausing only an instant to thank him, 
and say that her servant was on the platform — she might have said 
at the door, for Tom was already there — she bowed and passed out, 
wondering toward what part of the earth this strange, swarthy man 
who had crossed her path might be going in the darkness and storm. 
a How often,” she thought, “ one meets accidentally with persons 
under circumstances which excite a moment’s intense interest in 
them, who pass out of sight, and, never seen again, are remembered 
as visions of the night ! ” 

But this was not the only time that Mrs. Waite would see this 
strange being, for he was to make one of the threads of her life, his 
evil destiny being one of the tangled paths that intersect our 
narrative. 

She was glad to be in the glow of the fire-light and warmth of her 
home again, glad to see the smiles of the bright, loving faces that gath- 
ered about her with a tempest of questions. Sybil had gone home ; and 
Natalie, as anxious as the children, had yielded to their beseeching 
to be allowed to wait with her “ until mother came.” One took off 
her bonnet, another drew off her gloves, Clara possessed herself of 
her shawl and furs, Con took off one wet shoe, and Baste the other, 
chafing her cold feet with their warm, rough hands, while John con- 
tentedly looked on, directing every one, and uttering moral reflec- 
tions on the danger of ladies going out at night in snow-storms. 
Then little by little they got out of their mother that she had had 
something of an adventure in the car, and little by little they 
learned the how, the why, and the wherefore of it, but got lost in 
a dead mist as to who the stranger was, for she could tell them 
nothing. 

66 He was very good to pounce down so on that rough ; but I tell 


TANGLED PA THS. 1 75 

you what it is, mother, I’m afraid you’ll get killed yet in some of 
you wild charitable expeditions ! ” said John, gruffly. 

“ Instead of taking me along,” said Baste. 

“ You ! why you ? why not both of us ? ” asked Con. 

“ You won’t do so any more, mammy, will you ?” put in Clara, 
hanging around her mother’s neck. 

“ My dear, silly children, listen to me just one minute. Going 
when and where I did to-night saved a little child’s life, and a poor 
lady from great want and suffering. How now ! would you have had 
me stay at home, basking in the fire-light and enjoying my ease ? ” 

“ That’s the way she always gets ’round us,” growled John. 

“ But suppose you were not handy to be got at, what would 
people do then ? ” 

“ And always so ready and willing to be found ? ” added Baste. 

“Then our dear Lord would have some one else. He is never 
at a loss for faithful servants to do His work, my boys. But being 
here, and sometimes needed, you would not have me turn back 
like a coward for fear of disagreeable things.” 

“ Go ahead, mother ! ” exclaimed Baste, laughing. The others 
joined in, but said nothing, feeling that their mother, as usual, had 
the best of it. 

“ But you have told me nothing about Sybil,” she said, when 
quiet was restored. 

“ Oh ! Aunt Weston came in a great fuss for her, in the carriage, 
and swooped her off like a hawk does a pigeon.” 

“ John ! ” 

“ I don’t mean to call Aunt Weston a hawk, mother; but that’s 
the way she did it, you know ! ” he answered. 

“ And we were having such a good time ! Sybil was so merry, and 
we had some new games, and Natalie played on the guitar for us to 
dance. It was lovely ! ” said Clara. 

“And Sybil left her love, mother, and says she’s coming over in 
the morning, directly after breakfast, if you can wait in ; she wants 
to see you particularly,” said Con. 

“ I wish you could have seen Sybil going on with us like a school- 
girl ! Whew ! won’t all that be frozen out of her by the time she’s 
done eating Aunt Weston’s ‘prunes and prisms’ !” put in Baste. 


176 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Give me the prayer-book, my boy ; let us have our night devo- 
tions and go to bed. It is late, and I’m afraid sitting up toward mid- 
night don’t improve your charity.” 

A hush fell upon the usually merry, noisy group as, kneeling, they 
listened with devout attention to the clear, calm voice of their 
mother as she read in reverent tones the evening devotions, and re- 
sponded to the Litany, the “ Ave Maria” and “ De Profundis” 
and the invocation to Almighty God and His holy angels for protec- 
tion through the perils of the night. 


CHAPTER X. 


Sybil’s prodigal benevolence depleted her purse, leaving her only 
twenty dollars to expend for Christmas gifts, enough “ for remem- 
brance,” but insufficient for the purchase of costly trifles. Mrs. 
Grundy would certainly have chidden her had she heard of it, as the 
disciples did Mary Magdalen for pouring costly unguents on the 
feet of Jesus — “ waste,” they called it, of precious things, the price 
of which it had been better to distribute among the poor. Theirs 
was wisdom according to the narrow ways of men ; and knowing, 
yet not fully comprehending, their Lord’s humility, they believed 
that He would rebuke her for her prodigal extravagance. But, on 
the contrary, He declared that “ the woman had wrought a good 
work upon Him, which should be told for a memory of her through 
all time wherever the Gospel was preached.” 

The very thought of sending a rich chalice to the altar at “ Holy 
Cross” had afforded Sybil the highest degree of happiness that she 
had ever experienced ; for would not her gift be consecrated and 
made holy by the Divine and mystic rite by which the “ fruit of the 
vine ” would be transformed into the Precious Blood that had 
throbbed in the Sacred Heart of Jesus ? would it not be held up in 
the hands of the priest in view of the dear Sisterhood and her old 
school-companions, its splendor and costliness made more inesti- 
mable by its sacramental use ? and would not the dear community 
whisper a prayer for her both at the Offertory and at the supreme 
moment of the Elevation ? What dearer memorial could she have 
desired ? in what more sacred remembrance could she have hoped 
to be held ? 

Sybil was not in the least conscious of it, but there was just the 
least taint of self-seeking in her thoughts about the chalice ; it 
would, as you see, not only have satisfied a pious sentiment, but 
8 * (177) 


i 7 8 


TANGLED PATHS. 


also her natural affection, inasmuch as it would keep her in the 
minds of her friends whenever they assisted at the Holy Mystery of 
the Altar. 

But our Lord has His own ways of being served ; this time it was 
in the binding together of a wounded heart, giving food to the 
starving, health to the sick, hope to the despairing, and shelter to 
the homeless, instead of accepting a costly golden chalice for His 
own holy place. What the girl had done in blind obedience to her 
inspiration was to Him like the ministry of angels in Gethsemane : 
it was pouring precious unguents upon His feet, for that which is 
done unto the least of His suffering creatures He holds as being 
done unto Himself. 

These thoughts did not come into Sybil’s mind, as here defined, 
although the true animus was there : her heart had been touched by 
the stranger’s sad story, to which she had been an involuntary lis- 
tener, and she had given her money from an impulse of humanity 
and womanly pity; it was true that she had sacrificed a fond wish 
in so doing, but there was no self-gratulation in her mind over it, no 
desire to be commended for her generosity ; what she did had been 
done in secret, and she only hoped that no one would find her out, 
or speak to her about it ; but the simplicity of her humility did not 
rob her all the same of the quiet joy, untainted by the slightest re- 
gret, which, like a sweet reward, followed the act. 

She had gone home before her aunt returned from her errand of 
mercy the night before, but ran in the next morning, bright and 
blooming, going straight to the breakfast-room, where she was sure 
of finding her busied in washing up china and glass, freeing spoons 
and forks from egg-stains and the defacements of acids — which her 
lads, fond of vinegar and pickles, generally left upon them — be- 
sides giving her attention at the same time to other duties. John had 
told Sybil, one day, that his mother had a passion for blowing soap- 
bubbles, but being now past the age for indulging in such undigni- 
fied amusements, she had taken to dabbling in soap-suds, to make 
believe that the goblets and other cut-glass things were bubbles. 
But John was always sarcastic when he wanted his mother particu- 
larly, and saw her busied about matters that Uncle Tom could have 
done as well as herself. But it made no difference : washing up 


TANGLED PATHS. 


179. 

her china, glass, and silver being reckoned by Mrs. Waite among 
her domestic duties. 

At the moment Sybil came in Mrs. Waite happened to be quite 
alone — the usual conference with the servants being over, and or- 
ders for the day issued ; but she was nearly up to her elbows in a 
bamboo pail of frothing, glistening soap-suds. 

“ You see how it is, darling : both hands wet ! ” she said, as Sybil 
kissed her. 

“ That is better than a hand-shake ; but, oh, I am so happy, 
Aunt Waite ; you can’t guess what has happened ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ No, indeed, I can not. What has happened out of the com- 
mon to make your face sparkle all over like that ? ” 

“ Who do you think walked here with me this morning? ” 

“One of my boys ?” 

“No, indeed. It was papa, his very self, and he seemed to like 
it.” 

“ How did it happen ? for he is always in such a hurry to get to 
the bank that he scarcely allows himself time to eat his breakfast ? ” 

“Well, you know that I take breakfast every day with papa now; 
and this morning, when he left the table, I ran up-stairs to get my 
things on to come here ; and when I came down, there he was wait- 
ing in the hall. I thought he had gone away as usual, and was sur- 
prised at finding him there ; but when he asked me where I was go- 
ing, and told me that he would walk part of the way with me, my 
heart gave a great bound, and I wanted to throw my arms around 
him and kiss him, I was so overjoyed.” 

“ And did you, darling ? ” 

“No. I only said, 4 How pleasant, papa ! * and I suppose that 
everything else I should have said showed itself in my face, for he 
seemed quite satisfied, and we talked all the way. And he told me 
to give his love to you,” said Sybil, her face aglow with her new 
happiness. 

“ I am very glad that your father and you are getting to know 
each other, my child,” answered Mrs. Waite, holding up a cut-glass 
pitcher that she had just wiped to the light, to be sure that there 
were no smears left on its diamond-shaped crystal. A sunbeam 
slanted through it, throwing a shower of prismatic tints on table and 


i8o 


TANGLED PA THS. 


wall, which, attracting Sybil’s admiration, she did not see the glad 
tears that had gathered in Mrs. Waite’s eyes, or understand the little 
ruse she had adopted to veil them from her observation. 

“ By and by papa will know how dearly I love him, and he will 
let me be to him a true daughter ; don’t you think so, Aunt Waite ? ” 

“ I do not doubt it, my child ; but you must wait patiently for it. 
It will not come all at once, just as you wish it; but it will in time ; 
I am sure of that.” 

“ I hope so. I shall do my best to win papa’s affection. But 
now I’ll tell you, Aunt Waite, what brought me here so early this 
morning. You remember that we were going down-town together 
to see about the chalice I was talking to you about. But I don’t 
think I have money enough.” 

“ I did not suppose you would, my child, after your generous gift 
to our dear Lord last evening. Ah ! such offerings are far more 
precious to His Sacred Heart than gold or precious stones.” 

“ Aunt Waite ! how did you find out ? ” faltered Sybil, her fair 
face crimsoned and troubled. 

“ The poor heart that you gladdened by your generosity told me 
what had happened, and how ; and I knew that it could be only you. 
But where were you, Sybil ? for she told me that you seemed to come 
to her out of the air.” 

Then Sybil told her aunt of the awkward situation she had found 
herself placed in, when, concealed by the curtains across the bow- 
window, she had overheard that which she soon perceived was in- 
tended to be confidential; and determined to remain quiet, lest, if 
she appeared, it might add to the pain and humiliation of the afflicted 
lady, who so evidently wished to hide her griefs from every one ex- 
cept the friend whom she had sought. “And when you went out 
of the room, I just gave her the money and ran away,” added Sybil. 

“ Ah, my darling, we call things accidents and coincidences which 
are the very rulings of Divine Providence, if we only knew it. You 
were only waiting there in the twilight, with no apparent purpose, 
for the coming of a messenger through whom the Divine will would 
speak to you, and it bade you do Its behest in this wise : ‘ Help My 
destitute ones ; this is the chalice that I desire.’ ” 

“Aunt Waite, I will try to hope so; for it will make me very 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


1 8 1 


happy to think of it in that light, and help to forget the mortification 
I endured while hidden away behind the curtain, like a conspirator.” 

Mrs. Waite laughed, but said no more, lest by a mistake of over- 
praise she might tarnish the lustre of Sybil’s simplicity of heart. 

“ Did the child die?” she asked, presently. 

“ No ; help reached it just in time ; a half hour later, and it must 
have died. There was extreme destitution in the poor abode ; but 
when I came away there was warmth, comfort, and reviving life, * 
and no looking forward to a morrow of pinching want and distress. 
Tom went along ; without him, nothing much could have been done — 
the willing old heart ! I am going there again presently, to see if 
things are well w T ith poor Miriam and her child.” 

“ Ah ! ” escaped Sybil’s lips, in a full sigh of content, such as one 
sometimes hears little children utter when, having their wants grati- 
fied, their power of language is too limited for an expression of their 
satisfaction and gratitude. “ May I go part of the way with you ? 

I want to hunt up some little Christmas remembrances.” 

“ I shall be glad to have your company, darling ; and as I have 
to go into some of the shops on my way, I can show where you had 
best make your purchases. Go up now to see John and the others; 

I shall be ready in a half hour; I don’t really know what they’d 
think I deserved if you should be allowed to go away without com- 
ing to them for a little while.” 

Ever glad to be among her young cousins — with Natalie in sight, 
even if no words beyond the ordinary salutations of the day were 
exchanged between them, as it had not unfre.quently happened — 
Sybil ran up to the school-room, where she was received with noisy 
welcome ; they swarmed around her, full of Christmas talk, and what 
this one longed for and what that one intended to get if the holiday funds 
held out, until finally, to her great delight, she found out exactly all that 
she wanted to know, and about which she had been puzzling her brain 
to get at without betraying herself. Inexpensive articles most of 
them were, but most precious to the boy -hearts of Sir Galahad and 
other “ Knights of the Round Table,” which, when paid for, Sybil 
found that she had something yet left in her porte-monnaie , which she 
expended in some pretty trifles for Miss Arnold, Natalie, Edyth, 
Clara, and Maum Barbara. She wished to have bought something 


TANGLED PA THS. 


1 82 

elegant for her father,’ Mrs. Weston and Aunt Waite, for Peter and 
old Tom, but her porte-monnaie was quite empty, and there came a 
little pang of mortification thereat, with a natural dread of being 
thought mean at a time when every one was generous and would be 
making gifts to each other all around her. But as the days slipped 
on, and her aunt told her from time to time that a comfortable room 
within a few blocks of her own house had been secured for Miriam 
Hunter and her child — that they were nicely fixed in their new 
abode — that provisions and fuel were stored in it — that the rent was 
paid three months in advance — that they were both well, and were 
placed beyond the possibility of any sudden or pressing emergencies 
of want, Sybil knew that she had done well, and bore her little trial 
henceforward with a willing heart. Many of us have experienced 
the humiliation of seeming meanness, when circumstances alone 
have controlled our generous desires and made us appear to with- 
hold that which our hearts were longing to give ; and those who 
have, are aware that it is no small trial, however salutary it may be 
to our pride. 

Mrs. Waite spoke to her sister-in-law and a few other ladies, to 
ask “for fine sewing for a lady in reduced circumstances,” without 
mentioning her name — requesting them, if they had work, to send 
it to her house. Mrs. Waite’s benevolence was too widely known 
to be questioned as to its method, and the ladies who sent work 
were perfectly satisfied to comply with her wishes, except Mrs. Wes- 
ton, who took the first opportunity to deliver herself on the subject. 
Mrs. Waite ran in, one evening, and found Mrs. Weston dressing 
for a dinner at the French Minister’s, to which she had been invited 
by Madame le Marquise de Rozier, to meet a Russian Count, who 
was reputed to be the possessor of fabulous wealth, and remarkable 
for his distinguished appearance. 

“ I have just come in for a moment, Anne, to inquire when it will 
be convenient for you to send to my house the linen you wish made 
up — don’t disturb yourself, for I can only stay a moment or two.” 

“ I’ll send it to-morrow, if I think of it, Louise ; but I can’t un- 
derstand why upon earth you are making such a mystery about a 
seamstress ! Why can’t she leave her address, as other workwomen 
do, and have the work sent to her, instead of to you ? Indeed I 


TANGLED PA THS. 


183 


don’t think it looks well, Louise ; and there are plenty of people 
ill-natured enough to say that you take in sewing under false pre- 
tenses.” 

“Let them; I am perfectly willing, so the work comes,” replied 
Mrs. Waite, laughing. “ I only wish to assure you, however, that 
there’s no false pride on the part of the person who does the sew- 
ing ; it is entirely my own arrangement.” 

“ I’m not surprised to hear it ; for it seems to me that you get 
more eccentric every day that you live, Louise. But I shall want 
my linen made up in first-class style ; there’s a deal of embroidery, 
and fine tucking and stitching to be done ; are you sure that your 
protege will not botch her work ? ” 

“You need have no uneasiness about the make-up of your linen, 
Anne, if you send good patterns — ” 

“ Oh, of course ; I shall send French patterns ; and even expect 
them to be improved upon, if the woman has any artistic taste. 
Good heavens ! Fanchette ! do you think my head is made out of 
India-rubber? Be more careful with the hair-pins, if you please.” 

“ Excuse me, Madame ; it slipped,” said the French maid — who 
was dressing her lady’s hair — with a twinkle in her bright black eyes 
that it was well for her “ Madame ” did not see. 

“ I am sure that you will have no fault to find,” continued Mrs. 
Waite, “ for I have seen her work, and know what an accomplished 
needlewoman she is ; and indeed, Anne, I thank you very much for 
trusting her with it, knowing the help it will give to a friendless 
widow and her fatherless child,” said Mrs. Waite, rising to go. 

“ Wait one moment ; I have a favor to ask of you, Louise ; I 
want you to help me to receive on New-Year’s day. There’s not 
a shadow of an excuse for your not coming ; I know that you have 
an elegant black velvet dress that you have never worn, and pointe- 
lace collars and things that you have never unfolded, I believe, and 
the solitaire diamonds your brother gave you for a Christmas-gift 
just before the Judge died — ” 

“ The world and I shook hands then, Anne,” replied Mrs. Waite, 
gulping back the pain that the allusion to her great loss gave her. 
“But you are welcome to your little joke at my expense.” 

“I’m not thinking of joking in the least. Your brother would be 


TANGLED PA THS. 


184 

delighted to have you come ; it would be such a surprise to him too ; 
and then I only think it right and proper for you to show yourself 
occasionally in society, particularly as you have children growing up 
who will have to be introduced some day, and you’ll find it very 
awkward to have no circle of your own to bring them into. Come 
now ; what is the use of letting the moths eat up all those elegant 
things your brother has given you from time to time ! It is a poor 
compliment to him, to say the least of it.” 

“ My children will do well enough, dear Anne ; and as to the 
moths, the things you speak of are sufficiently well guarded against 
them to save me all disturbance on that score. My brother under- 
stands me too well to misconceive my seclusion from the world, and 
consequently the non-wearing of his gifts. Thank you all the same 
though, for your invitation ; and God bless you for the sewing- 
work.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know that I deserve any special blessing for the 
act ; I’m afraid it is too purely selfish ; the work had to be done by 
some one, and you gave me the opportunity to get it done without 
any trouble to myself, that’s all ! ” said Mrs. Weston, laughing, as she 
clasped a superb bracelet on her arm with a snap. “ I wish I had 
your clear head, Louise ; mine throbs as if my heart was in it, in- 
stead of being where it belongs. Give me the drops, Fanchette — 
be very careful — ten only.” 

“Why do you go out this evening — feeling so ill?” asked Mrs. 
Waite. 

“ Oh, I would not miss going on any account ! I consider it a 
special compliment to have been invited to meet Count Sucolov, a 
distinguished Russian nobleman that every one is already raving 
about. The company is to be small, and extremely exclusive ; 
then, you know, I shall have an opportunity of making his ac- 
quaintance in time to invite him to my ball. Ah ! those drops act 
like magic ! Good gracious, Louise ! why do you look at me so ? ” 

Mrs. Waite had a sensitive, expressive countenance, which re- 
flected emotions that she would very often have preferred to veil, 
and thoughts were now passing through her mind — sorrowful, boding 
thoughts, of the worldly-minded woman before her, and the fatal 
remedy which was becoming necessary to her to use habitually, to 



TANGLED PA THS. 


185 


enable her lo discharg^ her duties to society with becoming ''eclat ; 
that gave her uneasiness and pain. 

“ I must go now,” she*said ; “you know I have away of dropping 
into sad thoughts at the most unexpected times, and I am really 
sorry that it happened just now — ” 

“ Like a skeleton at a feast of roses ! ” laughed Mrs. Weston, as 
she arose from her chair and shook out her magnificent train before 
the great cheval glass, well pleased at her appearance and the perfect 
elegance of her toilette ; “ but good-bye, Louise ; say some prayers 
for me to-night.” 

“ Docs my brother go with you ? ” 

“ Your brother will be at the bank until midnight. Somebody's 
gone off and broken one of the branch-houses of the concern out 
West, and you’d think the world was coming to an end, to hear the 
going-on over it,” said Mrs. Weston, as Fanchette threw her ermined 
satin cloak around her. “ You see, now, the medicine I take I have 
need for. Let me take you home ; I’m going past your house.” 
Mrs. Waite did not refuse the offer, and soon found herself where 
she best liked to be, and where, above all earthly places, she most 
quickly found rest — in her own cheerful, love-lighted home, among 
her clamorous, happy brood, whose affectionate tyrannies, sweet to 
bear, yet required patience that is only born of a mother’s devotion. 

Days came and went. Mrs. Waite and Sybil went together twice 
to St. Xavier’s and twice received Holy Communion during Advent ; 
then came Christmas Eve, and the solemn midnight Mass in mem- 
ory of the Nativity, when the faithful received into their hearts Him 
upon whose coming the doors of proud Bethlehem were closed ; a 
Mass of profound devotion to Mrs. Waite and Sybil, who with Con 
and Baste adored the “ Word made flesh,” offering the humble abode 
of their hearts for the reception of the Divine Babe. 

Christmas day at last — with icicles, the earth snow-bound, but un- 
clouded sunshine over all ; it came with its divine joys, its bitter- 
sweet memories, its festivity and gleesomeness, every hour full of 
new happiness. The young Waites were nearly beside themselves 
with delight over their Christmas gifts. Mr. Weston gave his wife 
diamonds, and every one in the two families found themselves in 
possession of presents more or less valuable. Poor Miss Arnold 


TANGLED PA THS. 


1 86 

almost cried the faint remains of color out of her eyes over the 
French china vase Sybil gave her, filled with violets and tea roses ; 
'and when Edyth brought her a dress-pattern of lustrous black mo- 
hair, with trimmings complete, she became incoherent, and so trem- 
ulous that she was obliged to lie down. Maum Barbara blossomed 
out in brightly-figured things, and gauds enough to have made her look 
like an Indian idol if she had taken a fancy to string the glittering 
things over her person ; her delight was inexpressible, and we can 
express it no better than by saying she reveled in her riches. Mrs. 
Waite’s present from her brother was a plain coupe , with horse and 
harness, complete — an elegant, quiet turnout, in which there was 
nothing to alarm her modest taste. When it drove up to the door 
and Mr. Weston’s note was read, and it spread through the house 
that “ it had come and was theirs,” the commotion can be better 
imagined than described; and Uncle Tom told Mrs. Waite “ that’s 
long as Providence had done sent* her a car’ age he’d say what he 
never said afore, that it had been the cross of his life, and made him 
always feel sort o’ ’shamed, to see her gwine about afoot while them 
not half so good was ridin’, day in an’ day out, never techin’ their 
feet to the groun’ ’less they chose to.” 

To which tirade Mrs. Waite simply asked : “ Who will take care 
of the horse, and drive, now that we have a carriage, Tom ? ” 

“ Aint we got a big empty stable, Missis? and aint I here? I 
been used to bosses all my life, an’ has missed ’em bad ’nuff.” 

“ I’m afraid you love the pomps and vanities, Uncle Tom, a little 
more than you ought to for so old a man,” said Mrs. Waite. 

“’Deed an’ I does, Missis! I don’t keer who knows it. The 
Lord be thanked for all His mercies ! ” answered Uncle Tom, his 
white wool seeming to rise up and expand with family pride as the 
thought of the new dignity of a carriage took quiet possession of his 
brain. “May I take the chil’un to ride — -jess a little way, mum ? ” 
Leave being granted, and all who could go being stowed in the 
coupe , Tom drove them off in triumph, perfectly inflated with the 
sense of possession. 

But at last even Christmas day ended ; then there was a lull of 
more quiet enjoyment of the happy surprises it had brought them 
all, and great councils were held by the “ Knights of the Round 


TA NGLED PA THS. ! 8 7 

Table” to count over and compare their spoils, and appoint times 
for the execution of their various sports and plans for the week. 

One thing had happened just before the holidays set in, that came 
near making serious trouble in the Weston household. Mrs. Wes- 
ton had been for a year or more extremely anxious, to have a coat 
of arms and a crest for her silver and the panels of her carriage, but 
on sounding her husband on the subject he positively forbade “any 
such nonsense.” But the desire for this fictitious distinction was 
irrepressible, and Mrs. Weston had made up her mind to have it, 
let who might say nay. Her husband could but storm and glower 
about it for a little while ; she knew that he had not, or would not 
spare time to go to any extremes about it after the first explosion, 
so she determined on a coup d'etat — that is, she ordered a copy of 
Burke’s “ Peerage ” and a book of heraldry, and searched them inde- 
fatigably for what she wanted. At last she found a Weston whose 
name ran back from Westonne to Estovin, D’Eston, and Estoveldt, 
to the family root, which meant Druid’s Stone — the founder of the 
race having done something or other near one, with war-clubs and 
battle-axes, in defense of his barbaric Norse king, who rewarded 
him by making him a jarl and giving him a name which signified the 
name of the place that his prowess had made historic. The armorial 
bearings of old Druid-stone were adopted by Mrs. Weston without 
the slightest misgiving of her perfect right to them ; the panels of 
her carriage gloried in a crest, which was also blazoned on her silver, 
and embroidered on her purple and fine linen with all possible 
dispatch. 

Mr. Weston did not know a word of this last folly until it was too 
late to remedy it ; his face reddened with anger when by accident he 
discovered the pretentious fraud, and he was not slow to express 
what he thought of it, and empty a vial of wrath upon his wife’s head 
that came as near terrifying her as anything she had ever yet encoun- 
tered. But Mrs. Weston had expected a scene, and having the 
world’s wisdom to fall back upon, she met his wrath with a few ex- 
tenuating words, then silence, kept out of his way for a day or so, 
looked very penitent and made herself very charming when they met 
each other at table, and in a short time her offense was forgotten in 
the absorbing cares of his financial operations. 


1 88 


TANGLED PA THS. 


New-Year’s day came — a bright, frosty, sunshiny day, as Christ- 
mas had been — and Sybil, from her window, saw the world rushing 
to her father’s door. Edyth was with her. Fond of show and ex- 
citement, and knowing by sight many of the distinguished officials 
and others who visited at the house, the child, with precocious pow- 
ers of observation, drew Sybil’s attention to all who were most cele- 
brated and noteworthy among the rapidly arriving guests, and also 
to the splendor of their equipages and the richness of their servants’ 
liveries. The diplomatic corps had been to the President’s, and 
had called upon the ladies of the Chief- Justice’s family, and those of 
the Judges of the Supreme Court, the Secretary of State, and the 
Attorney-General, and were now visiting more informally, still, how- 
ever, giving precedence to official rank, according to established 
etiquette. Mr. Weston’s house was in the most fashionable 
quarter of the metropolis, not far distant from the President’s 
mansion, which gave his ambitious wife the advantage of re- 
ceiving many of her friends, as those whose presence she most 
desired made their calls about noon, before the tread-mill rou- 
tine had fagged the brilliance out of every one, or repeated libations 
compelled them to discreet retirement. The members of the Corps 
Diplomatique wore their decorations ; some of them glittered with 
gold lace, some were gay with bits of ribbon which meant a great 
deal to them ; many of them wore stars upon their breasts, and 
swords with jeweled scabbards, magnificent chapeaux, plumed, and 
ornamented with golden embroidery, and altogether presented a 
spectacle that interested Sybil the more as Edyth was able to tell 
her who the most of them were. 

“ How short a time every one stays ! they seem to rush in and 
out ! ” 

“ That’s because they have millions of other calls to make,” re- 
marked Edyth. “ But look there, Sybil, at that tall old man, just 
getting out of his carriage ; the one with epaulettes and all the 
other toggery upon him — that’s General Scott; don’t he look 
splendid ! There’s the Secretary of War — and that’s the Presi- 
dent’s carriage just come up — and oh, my ! there’s the Turk-man 
in his red cap ! Whew ! look at his jewels, Sybil ; don’t he flash 
and glitter ! ” 


TANGLED PA THS. 1 89 

Sybil saw it all — this pageant of the beau-monde — and wished 
with a sigh that it might come no nearer to her. 

“ Look, Sybil ! there’s one I never saw before ; that tall one, with 
great black eyes and broad shoulders. He looks exactly like a 
pirate ! ” 

“ I never saw a pirate,” answered Sybil, laughing. “ Do you 
think they look like that ? ” 

“Yes, I am sure they do. Did you see how he spoke to his 
footman ? ” 

“ No.” 

“You ought, then ; the man looked scared, and bowed almost to 
the pavement.” 

“ Oh, little sister — ” 

“ He did, I tell you. I wonder what brought him here ? I bet 
he’s a foreigner ! Mamma breaks her neck after foreigners.” 

“ Mamma’s neck does not appear to suffer, though.” 

“ Oh, pshaw, Sybil ! you do snap one up so ! I mean that mam- 
ma runs after them, and will have them here ; and I’ll tell you some- 
thing, if you won’t let up on me — papa can’t bear them. I heard 
him say so.” 

“ Edyth, you must not repeat such things. I will send you to 
Miss Arnold the very next time you do it” 

“ I don’t repeat half the things that I hear when mamma forgets 
I am in the room, and lets out on — ■” began Edyth, tossing her 
head. 

Sybil turned away from the window and opened a drawer of her 
bureau which contained all the souvenirs she had received at various 
times from her schoolmates, from home, and from the gentle nuns. 
The numerous pretty boxes, with their painted devices — some large, 
some small, which filled the drawer, had always presented a tempt- 
ing display to Edyth’ s curiosity, her sister having once showed her 
the contents of several of them which had pleasant histories attached. 

“ There’s my dear old Senator Morland ! Just look ! — he has a 
parcel in his hand ; I know it is for me ; he always brings me some- 
thing pretty. I’ve a great mind to run down and see. Where are 
you, Sybil ? ” exclaimed Edyth, missing her sister for the first time, 
and looking around for her. 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


i go 

“ You must not do that ; it would not be nice ; and I think mam- 
ma would not like it. If there’s anything for you, be sure it will be 
sent up.” 

“ I’m not sure at all ; and I’m just perishing for some bon-bons ; 
he always fetches bon-bons," said Edyth, half-crying. “ They’ll be 
thrown down somewhere after mamma thanks him, and he goes 
away, and somebody’ll be sure to eat them.” 

“ We will go and hunt them up after the people all go,” said 
Sybil, who could but feel diverted at EdytlVs comical dis- 
tress. “ See here! here’s the prettiest thing! It was made by a 
girl about your age, two years ago ; she copied it from a real butter- 
fly, and did it all herself. She was from Porto Rico, and was ship- 
wrecked on her voyage home — ” 

“ And drowned ? ” 

“No; a sailor saved her;” and finding that Edyth’s attention 
was secured, Sybil told of the “hair-breadth escapes” of her little 
friend ; after which she allowed her to go through her boxes and re- 
arrange her simple treasures. This occupation gave Edyth a sense 
of positive enjoyment quite different from that of standing at the 
window watching the throngs of gentlemen who came in and out of 
the house ; she had seen the same thing ever since she was of an 
age to take notice, when her nurse used to hold her up to the win- 
dow to be amused by the spectacle, until she was old enough to 
stand by herself, more than five years ago, and she did not care very 
much about it, the novelty having worn off, unless Maum Barbara 
and some of the maids could be there to gossip over the guests, at 
which time Edyth heard comments and anecdotes of a very ques- 
tionable character, which, if not plain to her comprehension, gave 
her a taste for repeating news. 

A later dinner than usual followed the reception. Mrs. Weston, 
magnificent in garnet velvet en train , pointe, and diamonds, was 
fatigued, but highly pleased with the success of the day ; over two 
hundred calls, and all the distinguished and best names in the city 
in her card receiver, was more than satisfactory. There was a flush 
of triumph on her cheeks, and a sparkle of gratified vanity in her 
eyes, and the nerves of her restless, planning, scheming head had 
been steadied by — the drops. The lady who had assisted her in 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


I 9 I 

receiving, had gone home as soon as the rush of callers subsided, 
to be in time for a juvenile bal masque at home, and the Westons 
were quite alone. Mr. Weston was fatigued ; it took very little of 
fashionable routine to make him ejmui ; he had made a round of 
calls ; custom required it of him, as madame was receiving at home ; 
and although he had kept within reasonable limits, tasted wine now 
and then only when he could not help it ; lunched on boillieu and a 
crust at one place ; ate salad and oysters at another ; he begged off 
from Roman punch, new brands of champagne and rare wines of old 
vintage, on the score of a weak head ; fortified himself with coffee 
only, and got back to his own house with no muddle in his brain, and 
a good appetite for wholesome food. 

“ And so, you did not show yourself to-day, Sybil ! ” he said, 
standing upon the rug, his back to the fire, when she in her simple, 
brown merino dress, a strip of snowy linen at throat and wrists, her 
beautiful golden hair in tangled rings and vagrant curls framing her 
fresh, fair face, entered the dining-room. 

“ I saw a great deal from my window, papa ; it was all very bril- 
liant ; the orders, and uniforms, and fine horses, and the liveries.” 

“ It is a very handsome sight ; but you will enjoy it more when 
you take part in it yourself. It gets to be a bore in time,” he said. 

“ Why need I take part in it, papa ? I do not think I shall like 
it, and no one will miss me,” said Sybil, with sudden courage. 

“J3h, it is expected, you know ! You don’t mean to be a nun?” 

“ No, sir ; but I — well, papa, I am afraid it will sound ungrate- 
ful, but I should be much happier to live quietly at home, as I have 
been doing these few weeks past, if I might.” 

“That is impossible. In your station of life, unfortunately, one 
has to submit to the usual rules that govern society, or be consid- 
ered eccentric, and have no end of surmises afloat about one. 
There is also another reason against it. Your step-mother would 
be assailed at once by injurious reports should you keep yourself in 
the background ; the world would say that she was jealous of you ; 
unkind and selfish purposes would be imputed to her, doing her 
great injustice,” said Mr. Weston, gravely. 

“ Oh, papa ! is the world like that ? ” 

“I am afraid it is,” replied Mr. Weston, with a smile, half sad, 


TANBLED PATHS. 


J92 

and a longing wish in his heart that he, too, had a home-life that 
would be a refuge and a rest to him. “ But here is my wife, at last. 
You are quite superb to-day, my dear ! ” 

“ A compliment from you is to be prized, as you rarely pay 
them,” she answered, as she swept round the table with imposing 
grace, to her chair at the head of it, looking pleased. 

Sybil could not tell why, at that moment, she thought of a crim- 
son sunset she had once seen under the edge of a thunder-cloud, 
that was veined with lightning, and that tossed its fiery splendors 
down into the glowing depths ; but it was only the warm, rich ruby 
color of her step-mother’s robes and the dazzling flash of the new 
diamonds that brought the scene so vividly back to her fancy. 

Mrs. Weston was very weary, but not too much so, to go over 
to her husband all the pleasant incidents of the day ; to tell him 
who had called, and how this one looked and what that one said, 
and the compliments another had paid. 

“ And, oh !” she went on, “ I never was so glad in my life that I 
could speak good French ; for a great many foreigners called who 
had not a word of English at command ; and such compliments as 
they paid my accent, and all that, you never heard ! One diplomat 
told me that it was a great surprise to find so few of the men in of- 
ficial life here who spoke any other than their own language.” 

“ That was an impertinence ! ” said Mr. Weston, drawing down 
his eyebrows. 

“ But a fact, none the less.” 

“ There’s ill-breeding in referring even to facts under certain cir- 
cumstances. Why do they not understand English before they 
come here ? It argues, I think, a want of cultivation on their side, 
not to understand English, quite as much as it does on ours not to 
understand French,” observed Mr. Weston, with sudden heat. 

“ You have not one iota of patience with foreigners, Mr. 
Weston.” 

“ I don’t object to them as foreigners ; but as men who presume 
on their position, as some of them do, to assume airs of superiority 
over Americans, socially 5 and otherwise — who sneer at our institu- 
tions, make invidious remarks about our public men, and evidently 
think they honor our women by noticing them. What do they know 


TANGLED PA THS. 


193 


of our social system, or the private life of Americans ? They see it 
only on the surface ; and after being here for years, they really know 
no more about us than if they had stayed at home, for they see only 
poor imitations of European customs, habits, and manners in our 
fashionable society, that fall far short of the example ; and as all pre- 
tense is transparent, it only excites their contempt.” 

“ How you do talk when you get on this subject ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Weston, bridling her annoyance, for she had a purpose in so 
doing. “ I forgot to tell you that the Chairman of the Committee 
on Finance told me that your bill was to be pushed through, first 
thing after the holidays.” 

“ Ah ! that is worth hearing ! ” answered Mr. Weston, growing 
serene. 

“ I thought you’d be glad to hear it. He says there’s not the 
least doubt of its going through both Houses without opposftion. 
Now, let me tell you of a stranger who called to-day with that Rus- 
sian friend of yours, who is here on something about our railway 
system, you know — I forget his name. I was introduced to him at 
the French Minister’s, the other evening — the most magnificent creat- 
ure I ever saw ! ” 

“ Ah ! what brought him over the seas ?” 

“A desire to travel, and make himself acquainted with American 
institutions — which he admires very much, I assure 3 011. He speaks 
English, French, German, Spanish, and Russ — ” 

“ What an ‘ Admirable Crichton ’ ! Is he a professor of lan- 
guages ? ” 

“ No. How absurd ! He is Count Andrea Succolov — a Russian 
nobleman of large fortune, your friend told me. He is received 
everywhere, and I want you to leave your card for him, as I must 
‘have him at my ball next week.” 

“ I shall be too busy; but I have no objection to you leaving my 
card. Introduced by Wystokoff, your Count will be a very wel- 
come guest, particularly since he has a laudable object in coming to 
the United States.” 

“ I never saw such eyes as he has ; gre it, black* wild eyes — like 
a stag’s at bay — and swarthy as a Greek — ” 

“ Edyth’s pirate,” thought Sybil. 

9 


i 9 4 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ A great, tall, broad-shouldered man, black-whiskered and debon- 
naire , and has the most winning voice I ever listened to.” 

“ He is not of the Russian type, I should say. Does Wystokoff 
know him ? ” remarked Mr. Weston, with quick suspicion. 

“ Knows his family, and all about him. What do you mean about 
the Russian type, though ? ” 

“ I mean that a pure-blooded Russian has cold blue or gray eyes, 
blonde or brown hair, short nose, long upper lip, and not an overly 
handsome mouth ; neither is he of so large a mould ; but lithe, 
sinewy, and agile. I speak, of course, of the genuine Russian type, 
without admixture with other races by intermarriage with them.” 

“ He’s not like that ; he’s a most charming person, of about 
thirty-five or forty, and ought to be thankful if by some accident of 
birth he has escaped the physiognomy you describe. But of course 
we shall learn more of him as our acquaintance goes on.” 

“Introduced as he is, he can not be an adventurer. But you 
know, Anne, especially now, I do not wish more than a formal ac- 
quaintance with strangers.” 

“ How singular that all the phases of your life should bear the 
impress of financial caution ! ” observed Mrs. Weston, with scarcely 
veiled sarcasm. 

“ I have found it to serve me,” he said, dryly ; “ and it may do so 
again, for aught I know.” Then he turned toward Sybil — the hard 5 
cold lines of his face softening into something like tenderness as he 
watched her for an instant, twining white azalias and scarlet buds 
together, her dark eyelashes throwing shadows upon her flushed 
cheeks as she trifled with the flowers to avoid the appearance of 
listening to a conversation which ran on the very verge of a family 
disagreement ; then, with a scarcely audible sigh, he left the table 
and retired to his library, to smoke and do some uncomfortable 
thinking. 

“ I believe I am fairly worn out, Sybil, and must get my things off 
and lie down. It is dreadful to be on one’s feet all day, and on the 
strain to say something agreeable to every one ; and one does meet 
with such stupid people, who set your very teeth on edge. You can 
have Edyth down, and Miss Arnold too, as I hear that you quite 
fancy her.” 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


195 


“Thanks, mamma ! but mayn’t I come up and help you?” 

a No indeed ; my maid does all that. Oh, dear ! how very tired I 
am ! ” she answered, as she left the room, with slow, halting steps. 

And Mrs. Weston was — to use a slang expression — almost played 
out. Playing la grande dame for hours on a stretch, saying just the 
right thing in the right place, making each guest feel himself the 
favored one, adapting one’s self to the humor of this or that indi- 
vidual, exercising that tact which so few understand, that covers 
gracefully any sudden discomfiture in one’s self, or diverts attention 
from the gaucheries of others ; the effort to appear indifferent to 
flattery and the more delicate words of compliment that most men 
offer as acceptable pabulum to the vanity of woman, that made her 
eyes sparkle with delight at the thought of her yet having power to 
evoke such incense ; the flutter of gratification she was in, and but illy 
concealed, at the unusual number of distinguished callers, the dread 
that haunted her of being found wanting in that noblesse oblige without 
which the best efforts toward social distinction are a fraud ; Mrs. Wes- 
ton had found to be no child’s play. And to aggravate the weariness 
of it all, she had an attack of indigestion ; as hostess, she had felt 
obliged several times, perhaps frequently through the day, to taste 
champagne ; she had nibbled at rich bits of cake, drank chocolate, 
ate an ice, part of a pate-de-foie-gras ; and last of all, salad-a-la - 
mayonaise , an imprudence indulged in to hold Count Succolov in 
conversation at the refreshment table, to which she herself had ac- 
companied him when the reception was nearly over. 

Who will say, that knows anything of the world, that it does not 
become a hard task-master, and demand service of its votaries far 
more difficult than Almighty God does of His children, for He is ever 
ready to sweeten the waters of bitterness to them ; and, when they 
are smitten, to bring gracious perfume from their wounds, as when 
the axe strikes the sandal-wood tree, it yields its sweetest fragrance. 
But the world has no power to console when the hour that proves 
its nothingness comes ; the axe falls, but there is no aroma of God’s 
indwelling grace to anoint the wound with heavenly unguents; and 
the poor heart that has clung fondly to it finds how delusive it all is, 
that its brightness fades in adversity, and its garden of delights is 
turned to a wilderness of thorns. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


196 

Mrs. Weston’s indigestion made her look like a haggard old woman 
— as her pallor was more apparent in contrast with the artificial spots 
of color on her cheeks ; but she knew that it would pass off after 
she had taken her “ drops,” which would bring ease and composure 
to her overtaxed energies. The newly-discovered drug always had 
the happiest effect on Mrs. Weston, but she had been warned time 
and again by her medical adviser not to use it unless an attack of 
insomnia came on, and even then with extreme caution. He ad- 
vised her to avoid excitement, and seclude herself from the world 
for a space ; he knew that her nerve-forces were terribly over- 
strained, but not beyond the healing that rest from what she called 
her “ social duties” would in time effect ; but this advice was dis- 
tasteful to Mrs. Weston, and why should she punish herself when 
she had so ready a means of relief at hand ? 

After her step-mother went up-stairs, Sybil sent for Miss Arnold 
and Edyth, and quieted the perturbation of the governess by saying 
at once, “ Mamma has gone to lie down, and told me to send for 
you. I am so glad you came ! ” 

“ Did she indeed, Miss Weston ! how very kind ! I was at Hol- 
land House once, and this looks very much like the rooms there,” said 
Miss Arnold, casting quick, nervous glances of admiration around on 
the splendors of this portion of the house, to which she was as great 
a stranger as if she did not live under the same roof. Sybil played 
and sang for her some English ballads she had learned out of the 
old music-books at Holy Cross, which brought tears to the dry, hot 
eyes whose fountains were nearly exhausted. Edyth hovered about, 
making bright, saucy speeches, hanging around Sybil when tired, 
and snubbing Miss Arnold whenever she reminded her of the rules 
of deportment. 

“ Miss Arnold will excuse your tumbling around so, Edyth, this 
once, and so will I ; but if you speak to her so again, you go to bed 
• — then she will come back here to me,” said Sybil in her grave, 
gentle tones. 

Sybil’s influence over the wayward child was surprising, for it was 
of a more gentle sort than she had ever before experienced ; but 
children have keen perceptions of character, and, independent of 
her sister’s attractions, there was a positive will underlying them 


TANGLED PATHS. 


197 


which Edyth, more quick-eyed than others, had recognized and 
yielded to voluntarily. Edyth had no idea of being sent to bed ; 
she would much rather behave well to Miss Arnold, and she did, 
reaping her reward in a happily spent evening. 

But Sybil’s peaceful days were fast drawing to a close. One 
more visit to St. Xavier’s with her aunt, one more Communion, 
recollected and undistracted by confused memories of the dazzle 
and glamor of the world ; a few more early Masses at St. Mark’s ; 
two or three more quiet evenings with her young cousins, and she 
would enter through what the votaries of fashion called “the Gate 
Beautiful,” into the enchanted regions beyond. The Waite lads 
made light of her approaching debut , for they did not know how 
much she dreaded it, or what pain even the thought of it gave her ; 
they chaffed her, and turned it into an absurdity by their mimicry and 
fun, until sometimes she found herself laughing with them. Ah, if she 
might only go on laughing at a safe distance ! John pretended to be 
a dowager, Clara the debutante , Con and Baste two admirers — one 
rich, and one poor — who pretended to her hand, and they got up 
such tableaux-vivant , such travesties of the ways of fashionable peo- 
ple, that Sybil was afraid the very recollection of them, if revived 
by actual realities, would make her laugh when it, would be proper 
for her to be perfectly impassive, and she imagined how dreadful it 
would be if she should happen to get into a fit of laughter for which 
she could give no explanation to the strangers who might happen 
to be around her. Natalie, without seeming to notice much, had a 
keen enjoyment in these ridiculous scenes ; they mocked the world 
she hated, and seemed to tear some of its fictitious drapery to rags. 

“ We 4 Knights of the Round Table ’ will be nowhere then,” said 
John, tossing off a red shawl he had been masquerading in. 

“ Yes, we’ll have to borrow a telescope to get a glimpse of you ! ” 
put in Baste. 

“ I don’t care ! I’m going off to strange lands to look for the 
Holy Grail,” said Con. 

“ I’d like to go with you, Con,” answered Sybil, her grave, sweet 
eyes following the course of a white cloud that floated over the sunny 
blue of the sky as she looked through the window, thoughtful and 
almost sad. 


igS 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Aunt Weston would soon be after you, on a green dragon with 
scales and two heads, and a tail like a comet’s ! Whew ! wouldn’t 
she swoop down upon you though ! ” said John. 

“ John ! ” It was his mother who spoke. She had just got in- 
side the door in time to hear his speech, but not in time to stop the 
laugh it made — not that there was much in it to make a laugh of, 
but they did not love their Aunt Weston or her hifalutin ways, and 
now that she was going to take Sybil away from them, as they un- 
derstood it, each one felt aggrieved, and prepared to enjoy a fling 
at her. These boys somehow felt — although she was more than 
passing kind to them — that Mrs. Weston was shallow and insincere; 
and they had an idea that she’d do her best to make Sybil just like 
herself. They could not understand, and did not care to, why Sybil 
should not be permitted to go on in the same pleasant way they 
had all so much enjoyed these two months past, and chose to think 
that it was owing to their Aunt Weston’s ridiculous foolishness. That 
is what they called it, and exactly what it seemed to be to them. 
Clara, however, thought it would be splendid to be a young lady, and 
have beautiful things to wear, and be admired, and dance, and do 
whatever she pleased, and steadily maintained her opinion, even 
when she joined in her brothers’ fun. 

“ I was in fun, mother,” said John, looking up at his mother, the 
twinkle not yet out of his eyes. 

“ It is possible to mix malice with fun, my boy,” she answered 
quietly, as she drew a chair up and sat down by him, her afflicted 
child, whose mind she wished to grow to a fair, upright stature, un- 
embittered by passions which would distort and stultify it in a far 
worse degree than disease had done his delicate body. She smooth- 
ed back the frowsed, tawny hair from his broad, white forehead ; 
they looked into each other’s eyes, understanding, one the mute 
appeal, the other the full forgiveness that was meant ; it was only 
an instant, this dumb interchange of spirit, and no one observed it, 
but it needed no further interpretation to these two, who were 
bound together by a more than ordinarily strong and tender tie. 
After this the hours sped away merrily ; Con and Baste had lots of 
things to tell about their holiday frolics ; Natalie described to them 
a horse-race on the frozen Neva ; then John sang a comic song ; 


TANGLED PA THS. 


199 


Sybil read a sketch from “ Georgia Scenes ” which made them laugh 
until they cried ; Mrs. Waite related an adventure she once had on 
the Blue Ridge, when, having strayed off from her party, she got 
lost and was not found until the next day. The very thought of 
their own mother spending the night alone on a wild mountain, and 
hearing wolves and bears making their savage noises around the 
tree into which she had climbed for shelter, until the day dawned, 
thrilled their hearts as no other tale of adventure had ever done, 
and they pressed closer around her, clinging to her and holding her 
hands, as if at any moment a wolf might rush in and tear her from 
them. No wolf came ; but a message did, for Sybil ; it was after 
ten o’clock, and, kissing them all round, she was muffled up with 
tender hands by Natalie ; the boys ran down to the carriage with 
her ; she promised to come again very soon, then she was whirled 
away, the impressions of her happy evening brightening her thoughts 
into forgetfulness of the dark, cold night outside. 

The evening so long dreaded by Sybil came at last. Madame the 
modiste , as a great favor to Mrs. Weston, had consented to superin- 
tend the toilette of the young debutante in person, and arrived at the 
time appointed. A Frenchwoman, and really artistic in her line of 
business, she knew that an appearance of simplicity would be the 
most becoming thing in the world to mademoiselle’s youth and style, 
and Sybil was not over-dressed, although her attire was of almost 
fabulous cost. It was of white pointe , and floated around her in 
filmy beauty, the fine pattern showing like frost-work over a creamy 
silk underskirt ; a broad sash of pale blue something, soft and lust- 
rous, the pearls — her father’s gift — and a bouquet of lilies-of-the- 
valley, completed her toilette. Mrs. Weston sent her a magnificent 
mother-of-pearl fan — a present from herself — to be attached by a 
light filigree chatelaine of frosted silver to her side, with a bunch of 
costly bagatelles also depending therefrom — an antique fashion, 
lately revived in Paris. • Sybil showed not a vestige of color in her 
cheeks, and madam e suggested a soupcon of rouge, which was very 
positively forbidden ; her neck and arms, like her face, were as fair 
as Parian marble ; her eyes showed large and blue under the long, 
dark eyelashes; her golden hair caught every gleam of light like a 
luminous aureole around her forehead. She was very quiet and 


200 


TANGLED PA THS. 


passive ; madame, with deft touches, did all that was required ; she 
turned her about as she would, to adjust sprays of lilies-of-the-valley 
here and there in the loopings of her dress, to arrange her sash, her 
train, and the long, loose curls that floated from the Grecian knot 
at the back of her head ; and at last she was pronounced perfect ; 
madame’ s task was done — no, not quite — a drop or so of fashionable 
perfume was necessary for the lace handkerchief, but Sybil took it 
gently from her hand, saying that she had a dislike for all odors ex- 
cept those of flowers. Madame did not insist — she only thought 
that this rich young American lady had a very positive will of her 
own, and was somewhat odd — but what then ? all the fragrance of 
the Vale of Cashmere could add nothing to such grace and loveli- 
ness ; besides, was not mademoiselle beautiful and rich enough to 
afford just a mite of eccentricity? 

Mrs. Weston sent in haste for madame to come to her the mo- 
ment she could leave Miss Weston ; something had gone wrong in 
the set of her dress — her maid could not tell what. “ I only know,’’ 
she whispered in French, “ that she’s as mad as a hornet, and you 
had better drop everything and come.” Fortunately there was 
nothing to be dropped, and they left the room together. Then Miss 
Arnold and Edyth ran in for a moment to look at her in her costume 
du bal ; and Maum Barbara, whose ecstasy was irrepressible, stood 
gazing admiringly, wondering much why she looked so indifferent to 
that which appeared to her ignorant mind the summit of human felicity; 
in truth, Maum Barbara was quite mortified by the fact of her young 
lady not being more up to the situation than she was, and felt called 
upon to apologize to her fellow-servants for it by informing them 
that “ the po’ young thing was shy of goin’ ’mongst so many stran- 
gers ; but she’d soon git used to it, cos it was borned in her blood to 
hold up her head with the best.” Last of all, Mrs. Weston’s maid 
returned with a request from that lady for her to wait there until she 
was ready to go down with her. 

“Tell mamma yes,” she answered; then she was left to herself. 
She closed her door gently and turned the key, then crossed the 
room to her oratory, where she stood for a moment as lovely as 
Vashti when she went before King Ahasuerus, stood with a pleading, 
half-frightened expression on her countenance, and, as if involuntarily, 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


201 


the trouble of her heart escaped her lips in low-uttered words : “ He 
hath filled the hungry with good things, the rich He hath sent away 

empty He hath scattered the proud in the conceit of their 

heart ; He hath put down the mighty from His seat, and hath ex- 
alted the humble ! ” Were not these the words that Mary sang 
when she magnified the Lord and His dealings with her, and was 
not her humility above that of all creatures, and the root of her high 
exaltation ? but she, how would it be with her when assailed by 
temptations on every hand ? She seemed to hear the far-off voices 
in the choir at “ Holy Cross ” reiterating the words — and, kneeling, 
she renewed the offering of herself to the service of Jesus and Mary. 
What were all these gauds and vanities, compared with benediction 
and love like theirs ? Then suddenly the thought again came to her 
that her cross would be a strange one, unlike most other crosses, but 
a cross none the less, and such an one as He who died upon the 
Cross had willed that she should bear ; a cross which required 
nothing heroic, perhaps, and would win for her no palms, as she trod 
the path of duty and daily sacrifice, and patiently bore the goad of 
its splinters, known to no soul beside her own. She could not 
foresee this, however. Trust and submission were her only 
safeguards. 

There was a sharp tap on her door. It was Mrs. Weston, who 
almost started with astonishment at the spirituelle loveliness of her 
step-daughter, who stood before her under the full radiance of the 
chandelier ; but she quickly recovered herself. 

“ You will do nicely, Sybil ; I never saw any one more perfectly 
dressed. We must go down now. I will introduce you to persons 
as they come in, until the dancing begins ; then of course you will 
be expected to dance. How do you like your fan ?.” 

“It is beautiful, mamma; excuse me for not thanking you at 
once.” 

“ Certainly, my dear ; it is not at all strange that you are off 
your head a little ; but you’ll get accustomed to everything very 
soon, I assure you. You must remember, Sybil, to be affable to 
every one, and neither accept nor show particular attention to any ; 
and, above all, don’t get mixed-up or embarrassed,” said Mrs. Wes- 
ton, on their way down the broad staircase. 

9 * 


202 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ I will do my best to follow your directions, mamma,” she 
answered gently. 

Mr. Weston was waiting for them in the reception-room ; he did 
not often appear at his wife’s entertainments, but on this occasion 
he thought very rightly that it was his duty to do so. He longed to 
clasp his daughter to his breast, for never had she appeared so much 
like a vision of her mother as he imagined she must look in her 
heavenly abode. Sybil noticed the longing, sad expression that her 
father could not keep down, and, involuntarily, reached out her 
hand ; he took it, held it an instant, and, leaning over, kissed her 
forehead. It was a sweet omen to Sybil — one that lifted her above 
her perplexing doubts and fears ; and by the time she was called, by 
an arrival of guests, to take her stand beside her step-mother, a 
strange and happy smile lit up her face. The gay world poured in 
and payed willing homage to the superb hostess, the lovely 
debutante, and the grave, dignified host, whom so few of them 
had ever before seen mingling in scenes like this. It was a most 
brilliant company, an exclusive and select assemblage of distin- 
guished men, and beautiful, richly-dressed women — celebrities — in 
fact, all that was most cultured and famous of the social elements of 
Washington life Mrs. Weston had brought together on this occasion. 
Whispers of admiration passed from one to another as Sybil, with 
gentle, girlish grace, received the guests, presented by her step- 
mother ; she was far more beautiful than any one had imagined, 
and her sweet-voiced way of replying to their salutations, and pleas- 
ant little speeches, quite won upon every one. “ How self-pos- 
sessed ! ” was the whisper that passed around as the various groups 
moved on to give place to fresh comers. Had Sybil’s thoughts 
been centered upon herself, she might have shrunk with- embarrass- 
ment from all this crowd of strange faces and the flattering words 
she heard ; but they were “otherwhere” ; and so it was passing be- 
fore her like a phantasmagoria, until the dance-music began, its in- 
spiriting strains floating in from the ball-room; but she was not yet 
at liberty, for several of the Corps Diplomatique , with their wives, 
were just entering, to whom she must be introduced; then a group 
of fashionables from New York appeared, followed by the President 


TANGLED PA THS. 


203 

and his niece, two or three leading Senators, and the Lieutenant- 
General of the Army. 

Mrs. Weston, while saying and doing all that was necessary, in 
the most perfect manner, in the reception of her guests, was evi- 
dently expecting some one who had not yet appeared ; she did not 
attend at all to the pretty things that were being said to her step- 
daughter by the courtly old President, or how she was acquitting 
herself toward the stately, white-haired General, who bowed over 
her, paying her the high-flown compliments of a past era ; her eyes 
roved inquisitively toward the hall at every fresh arrival, and she 
could scarcely veil her disappointment at not seeing the one ex- 
pected. But at length — the very last arrival — the tall, commanding 
figure of Count Andrea Succolov entered. There was nothing to at- 
tract attention to him so much as himself, if we may be allowed the 
expression ; he wore an evening suit of black, undistinguished from 
any other except by a small decoration set with diamonds that was 
worn so modestly as to be partly concealed by the lapel of his coat. 
He attracted immediate attention and inquiry. Even Mr. Weston 
was impressed by his commanding presence ; and Sybil, who rec- 
ognized him, the moment he entered, as Edyth’s “ pirate,” while 
struck by his imposing appearance and deferential manner, felt a 
cold thrill as if a sudden icy current of water had trickled through 
her heart. He offered Mrs. Weston his arm ; and Sybil, with her 
father, followed into the ball-room, where the valsing had some time 
ago begun. “Is this dancing?” thought Sybil, as couple after 
couple floated whirling past her in the usual close embrace — the 
head of the lady, from very dizziness or from choice, upon the breast 
of her partner. 

To Mrs. Weston’s intense mortification, Sybil declined all invita- 
tions to valse / nor could all her asides in persuasion or rebuke in- 
duce her to do so, although the most distinguished of the society- 
men present had hastened to ask the honor of dancing with her. 

“ She’s a perfect prude ! a simpleton ! ” murmured Mrs. Weston, 
under her breath. “ I shall speak to her father ; she will certainly 
mind him ! ” 

“ You were looking for me awhile ago, Anne— so Jarvis tells me ? ” 


204 


TANGLED PA T//S. 


said Mr. Weston, as he was coming away from the supper-rooin, 
just as she started to go toward it. 

“ Oh, I’m so glad to have found you ! I want you to speak to 
Sybil ; she refuses to dance, and every one looks surprised and 
offended. It’s perfectly absurd for her to behave so.” 

“ Look there, Anne ! ” said Mr. Weston, pointing to some 
couples that were whirling by, “ is that what you mean by dancing ? ” 

“ Of course it is. No one refuses. It is eccentric and ill-bred 
to do so ! ” she answered, hotly. 

“ I am willing, then, for my daughter to be so considered, if such 
is her own choice. I should be sorry to see her engaged in a dance 
like that ; and I will not have her urged to do so.” 

“You are entirely behind the times, Mr. Weston ! ” was the angry 
response. 

“ I am satisfied to remain so on this point. I thought that your 
Church forbade this sort of dancing to Catholics ? ” 

“ The Church has done nothing of the sort. Some pastors have 
forbidden it, for the reason that there are people who take the round 
dances into the confessional because they make them dizzy, or they 
can’t get partners, or something.” 

“ However it may be, the choice must be left to my daughter’s 
own wishes. I shall order those fellows in the music gallery to 
play some other dance-music.” 

“Pray don’t, Mr. Weston; it would throw all my arrangements 
for the evening into confusion.” 

“It will depend upon circumstances whether I do so or not. My 
daughter shall not be annoyed.” Mr. Weston spoke peremptorily, 
then went to join a group of gentlemen around the President. 

“ My daughter /” repeated Mrs. Weston, with bitter emphasis. 
She was baffled, and irritated by this unlooked-for interference from 
a quarter whence she least expected it ; but she had too much tact 
to allow the least trace of it to be seen, and, smoothing her ruffled 
plumage, she again mingled with her guests and listened with appar- 
ent gratification to their congratulations on the perfect success of 
her daughter’s debut , and their complimentary phrases about her 
beauty, which so far exceeded all that they had anticipated. This gave 
her the opportunity to speak of Sybil’s hitherto secluded life — of its 


TANGLED PA THS. 


205 


having been a whim of Mr. Weston’s to have her brought up by her 
aunt, the Superioress of a Convent, and that she had come home 
with many of the prejudices of habit and education yet clinging to 
her, which “ will wear off, you know, as she gets accustomed to the 
ways of the world.” 

“ You must make me acquainted with your daughter, madame ; it 
has been so long since I have seen an unsophisticated young lady 
that I almost forget how they look,” said Senator Morland. “ Do 
you think she would dance with an old graybeard like me ? ” 

“Not unless you can prevail, by your eloquence, to induce her 
to make an exception in your favor, for she positively declines 
dancing.” 

“And why, pray — if I may ask? Possibly there is such rivalry 
for the honor of her hand that it is a little ruse to keep the peace,” 
he observed. 

“ Oh, no ! It is only one of her Convent prejudices against the 
round dances ! ” replied Mrs. Weston, with a swift flash of anger in 
her eyes which no one except Senator Morland observed. 

“ She will so much longer preserve, madame, the fair bloom of 
her innocence,” said a- low and very musical voice at her side. She 
turned quickly, and met the great black eyes of Count Sucolov. 

Ah ! if he approved — this man who had been the habitue of 
courts, she would also make a virtue of Sybil’s perversity. “ That 
is very true, Count ; and it is the comfort I shall fall back upon for 
her singular determination,” she answered, graciously. 

“I have conversed with Mademoiselle Weston ; one need not to 
dance with her ro be charmed ; her conversation is so very enter- 
taining, so intelligent ; and then, she is very beautiful.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Mrs. Weston ; “ but I must introduce 
you to a partner for the German.” 

“ Thanks, no ; I do not dance too.” 

“ Have you religious scruples ? ” asked Mrs. Weston, in her first 
amazement. 

“ Oh, no ! no, Madame,” he answered, in his low, sweet voice, 
with a little laugh. u Je suis blase snr les plaisirs ; for the world is 
a very long way, and I am not in my first youth.” 

A complimentary rejoinder, then the valsiug ceased, and Mrs, 


206 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Weston, on the arm of her distinguished guest, led the way to the 
supper-room, where the table showed a mass of waxlights and flow- 
ers, glittering crystal and service of gold, loaded with viands of the 
costliest, and fruits of the rarest description. Wines scarcely known 
to Americans, and valued almost by the drop, were among the lux- 
uries offered by Mr. Weston to his guests this evening; and as the 
coming and going was not in the order of precedence, and entirely 
sans ceremonie , there was no stiff feeling of restraint — no jealousies, 
no feeling of being slighted, either generally or individually, and 
every one enjoyed himself or herself according to their own taste. 
It is a fine art to know how to entertain, and Mrs. Weston was mis- 
tress of it ; for after bringing the most select and harmonious elements 
of society together, she allowed them to assimilate without interfer- 
ence, or the interposition of stiff formula or strained compliments, 
the exercise of which generally indicates a not over-certainty of 
one’s own knowledge of the exact line where good breeding ends 
and vulgarity begins. Yes, Mrs. Weston was no sciolist in the ways 
of the world ; she was perfectly au fait in every social duty ; and 
her knowledge had not been attained without difficulty, trials, and 
mortifications that had almost made her despair, but she gained at last 
that for which she had sacrificed natural, holy, and all the tenderest 
instincts of womanhood ; for which she had trampled conscience, 
religion, and the sustaining safeguards of her faith underfoot ! Was 
it, is it ever worth the sacrifice ? Does it pay even in its own 
earthly realms ? No ! the vulnerable spot is in every heel, the 
skeleton in every closet, however the glitter of the world may seem 
to guard and veil them, and cover them in from every ill. Does my 
moralizing thus, in the midst of festivity, remind you of the skeleton 
of the Egyptian feasts ? If so, let us cover it up — that is the best 
we can do, for like Banquo’s ghost, it is always present, and we can 
not absolutely exorcise it, and we will follow Sybil through the night 
of her first ball. 

There was much polite regret expressed, that Sybil would not 
dance the. German, but she was surrounded all the evening, and a 
quantity of the most beautiful of the German favors found their way 
to her, offered with pretty little speeches, and graciously accepted, 
as it was understood that to do so did not involve an engagement 


TANGLED PATHS. 


20 7 


to dance, and she thought of the delight they would give Edyth and 
Clara on the morrow. Mr. Weston joined her several times, to be 
assured that she was enjoying herself, for he did not for a moment 
suppose, knowing the world as well as he did, that his daughter 
would be neglected, and he always found her the center of an ad- 
miring group, all eager for a word or smile, while she, serene and 
fair, governed by that sentiment of good-nature on which true po- 
liteness is founded, acquitted herself with singular self-possession, 
and very agreeably toward the people who were offering her incense ; 
except now and then, when an old society beau, with his unmistak- 
able and insufferable air, approached with broad flatteries ; or when 
young exquisites not yet arrived at that state of nice culture which 
avoids, as ill-bred, the paying of personal compliments to one almost 
a stranger, came up to express in the most approved style the admi- 
ration generally acceptable to the ladies of their acquaintance ; then, 
an almost imperceptible elevation of the head, a something of sur- 
prise in her beautiful eyes, of which she herself was unconscious, a 
deepening of the delicate rose-tint in her cheeks, and a quietly 
uttered, “You are kind to say so,” convinced them that it was all 
utterly distasteful to her, or that she was one of those who intended 
to triumph by seeming artlessness, for it never occurred to their 
benighted minds to imagine that a woman could by any possibility 
be indifferent to their attentions. It came to be tacitly admitted, 
however, that Mr. Weston’s daughter, beautiful and rich, was to be 
granted immunity from certain things ruling in society, she being 
charming enough to be permitted some little oddity. 

Sybil began to think that what she had pictured to herself was not 
so dreadful after all ; in a degree, the novelty, the glitter, the beauty, 
and all the rest of it, amused and interested her more than she had 
expected; but must we tell you how? Imagine to yourself a sen- 
tinel on guard, watching from his rampart on the mountain side the 
evolutions of an army of the enemy in the valley below, whose 
movements are timed by stirring music, whose plumes and accoutre- 
ments are waving and glittering in the sunlight, while beyond and 
around the hostile encampment nature has outspread a lavish beauty 
of waterfall, rich, wooded heights, slumberous valleys, with golden 
beams from the east blinking down through rose-tinted clouds, bath- 


208 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


ing every object in strange loveliness. He is ever watchful, ever 
on the alert for danger ; a poisoned arrow from some creeping foe 
may strike him at any moment ; but this does not prevent a keen 
enjoyment of all the beauty within the scope of his vision, even 
while he guards with his very life the entrance to the stronghold of 
his king, and knows that if he falls, it will not be through neglect 
of his trust. So Sybil, from the heights of her Faith, from the 
stronghold of her soul, looked out upon the phantasmagoria of the 
world as it passed before and around her to-night ; not that she 
thought she was on a height, we say that for her, knowing that she 
was ; she was only intent on holding firm and fast her loyalty to 
Heaven, with a watchful outlook for the insidious approaches of 
temptation. 

Mrs. Weston, with Count Sucolov and several favored guests, had 
gone to her boudoir, which had added to its attractions a small 
fountain, and some star-shaped jets set in the irregular green ceil- 
ing, which through their tinted shades threw a fantastic light over 
the grotto. 

“ I am surely under the sea ! Is this harp enchanted, madame ? 
Or does one call in the sprites with it ? ” said Count Sucolov, run- 
ning his long, shapely fingers over the strings, with skillful touch. 

“ Yes, try it ; they will answer by coming ! ” was the gay response. 
He bowed. 

A low, rippling prelude filled the place with harmony ; there was 
no twang, no violent wrestling with the strings ; the music seemed 
to flow from the chords as if the elves of the wind were tripping in 
golden measures over them ; and then he sang wild, weird strains in 
a tenor so delicious and soft-breathed that every one remained mo- 
tionless to listen ; but the language of the song was as strange as 
the music, and the wonder grew. Sybil, with two or three young 
ladies whom she had invited to come with her to see the grotto, as 
if drawn thither by the invocation of a spell, now entered ; and the 
Count, turning his eyes in that direction at the moment, met hers. 
Again that mysterious, cold pain from his fiery glance checked the 
throb of her heart, and she went toward a marble stand filled with 
spoils of the sea, and began to turn over and examine the nautilus 
shells and lace coral heaped upon it. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


209 


“ Another song, I beg, Count ; the sprites have not come, you 
see, nor will they, unless you sing again,” pleaded Mrs. Weston, 
who had not observed Sybil and the young ladies with her, when 
they entered. 

“ They are here, madame — there is the Undine of my song,” he 
said, bowing toward Sybil. 

Mrs. Weston was too polite to urge him to another effort, and 
only said : u You have given us a delicious treat ; may I ask the 
language of your song ? ” 

“ Tartar, madame. It was the love-song of a young chieftain of 
the Steppes.” 

“ Have the Tartars a written music ? ” 

“ I can not really say. My nurse used to sing it to me. She was 
a Tartar peasant,” he answered, his voice always singularly clear 
and low. 

And then every one had something to say about the song, and 
expressed delight ; but he only bowed ; towering above them all, his 
eyes followed Sybil, who glided out of the boudoir and back to the 
ball-room ; and when Mrs. Weston and her friends followed soon 
after, she found that in a pause of the German the “ Lariciers ” had 
formed, and that Sybil was actually dancing with Senator Morland, 
and chatting with him as gaily as if she had known him all her life. 
Mrs. Weston did not like this innovation ; square dances were entire- 
ly out of fashion, and she sent one of the servants immediately to 
the music gallery to inquire who had ordered the “Landers” being 
determined to rebuke whoever it might be. But when the answer 
came back that “ Mr. Weston had done it,” she only said : “ That 
will do,” and bit back her anger. 

Two o’clock a.m. ; the sounds of music and revelry have died 
away ; the banquet-hall is deserted, the lights extinguished, and the 
roll of the last carriage fades in the distance, and, once more in her 
safe refuge, Sybil hastens to lay aside her rich dress and her jewels ; 
and in her simple cambric wrapper, with almost darkness around her, 
she knelt at her oratory, her soul clinging nearer to Mary’s feet than 
ever, growing calmer and more restful with every bead she dropped, 
with every prayer she uttered. 
























PART II. 


# 




PART II. 


CHAPTER I. 

One of the tangled paths of our story now leads us across the seas, 
far away into those frozen regions of snow and ice over whose 
measureless extent the Czars hold sway, those regions which grow 
full of weird and marvelous beauty as sudden as enchantment when 
the mercury drops forty degrees below zero, and the whole land looks 
like Carrara marble sprinkled with diamond chips, so brilliantly do 
the frozen snow-crystals, lying loose over the surface, reflect the rays 
of the sun. We find ourselves waiting at one of the stations of the 
straight-line railroad between St. Petersburg and Moscow — a build- 
ing of substantial and magnificent proportions, constructed on a 
liberal and uniform plan with all others in the Empire, where rail- 
roads are under the control of the Government, and not of corpora- 
tions, as with us. 

The express train from Moscow, crowded with passengers from 
Archangel, Irkoutsk, from the Amoor, the shores of the Caspian, 
from the Caucasus and the Crimea, has just gone like an arrow out 
of a bow from under the great red arches of the station, toward St. 
Petersburg, leaving a long plume of blue smoke and sparks sus- 
pended in the aerial ice of the atmosphere, which is as clear as 
crystal and lit up by sunshine which has more silver than gold in it. 
Sleds, drojkys, and troikas, from the small farms lying beyond that 
belt of firs toward the south, are fastened here and there on the side 
of the station allotted to them. The wild, unkempt little black 
horses that drew them hither are restive and noisy, while their peas- 
ant masters thaw their half-frozen limbs in the summer warmth within, 
transact the business that brought them there, and drink kwas until 

(213) 


214 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


they become merry. The vehicles are all on runners of iron or 
tough wood, the trappings of the horses of a primitive kind, but 
strong, with leather bracings and clamped round-headed nails, while 
straw and the hairy skins of bears and other wild animals give pro- 
tection against the biting cold to the travelers who journey in them. 

Notwithstanding the fierce cold, persons huddled in sheepskin 
touloupes, in all forms of greasy dirtiness, the wool-worn inside, 
their boots and caps lined with cheap furs, and their garments show- 
ing many degrees of poverty, saunter up and down the platforms, 
waiting for the train from St. Petersburg, which stops at the various 
stations for a few minutes for the accommodation of wayside pas- 
sengers who belong to the villages and country-houses lying between 
the two cities, and who not unfrequently give these hangers-on a 
chance to win a few coppers, which they straightway swallow in the 
shape of kwas or absinthe. One or two female peddlers, with baskets 
full of pretty trifles of carved wood, gold niello- work, embroidered 
sarabands, models of the cracked bell of the Kremlin, and blest pict- 
ures from Troitza, come now and then to the door of the common 
waiting-room of the station and peep out, listening keenly for the 
distant rumble of the train, to be on hand with their wares the mo- 
ment the passengers alight. And much need have they of help, 
judging from their hungry faces and their faded and tattered gar- 
ments, so patched, layer on layer, that what with grease and dirt to 
help, they afford a degree of warmth and protection to their owners. 
And here, also impatiently waiting, is a group of gypsies, with 
scraps of scarlet and yellow and blue, showing under their dilapi- 
dated, soiled touloupes, with sequins dangling from their ears, and 
cabalistic rings of silver upon their swarthy fingers, who keep a 
keen outlook for some one who may desire to have the future re- 
vealed. There are no end of mujiks hanging around, ready, for a 
kreutzner, to do any service that may be required when the trains 
stop, from helping to pack the tender with wood — for they do not 
burn coal in the Russian locomotives— to loading-up the freight trains 
with the hides and tallow that go to the great markets of the south. 
There’s chaff enough in gutturals that rend the air, flying between 
these persons and the guards, to keep them from freezing, which is 
varied by occasional peals of laughter at the races out in the white 


TANGLED FA THS 2 1 5 

plain between the shaggy Ukraine horses in the sleds of the peasants 
as they spin away in the distance. 

But a new diversion arises. A troika differing from those in com- 
mon use only by having a close, light coupe on springs adjusted to 
it, and by the more costly materials and finer finish of its construc- 
tion, drawn by three superb horses of the Orlov breed, dashes up ; 
the footman springs from his seat and opens the coupe door for 
orders ; and having received them briefly enough, he closes it and 
rushes into the station-house. 

There is surely some old imperial dignitary, perhaps an arch- 
bishop from St. Isaac’s, or a General from the Crimea, in the 
curtained coup and every eye is turned that way, full of curious in- 
quiry. They do not wonder long, for presently the door is flung 
open with an impatient bang, and a lad of some sixteen years springs 
out, stretches out his arms and draws a long breath, as if freedom 
from the closeness and restraints of the luxuriously-cushioned car- 
riage, were an inexpressible relief to him. He is tali and lithe, 
and enveloped in the universal touloupe, of the same style, yet quite 
a different thing from that of the mujiks and others of the lower 
classes, which were filthy and greasy ; this one is clean, and, although 
of sheepskin, as pliant as a kid glove, its color a delicate fawn, 
stitched in arabesque patterns with crimson silk, while the fleece 
within is as white as snow ; it is fastened on the right shoulder by a 
clasp, and confined to the waist by a richly-plated leather belt. For 
some boyish freak, or perhaps because he hoped that he might have 
a tussle with the wolves before he got home that night, he wears a 
long hunting-knife, whose sheath and handle are of niello workman- 
ship, thrust under his belt on the left side. Underneath his touloupe 
appears a caftan of green cloth ; his white-felt boots, reaching above 
his knees, are fur-lined ; and his cap, lined with sables, has a wide 
flap extending around it which covers his neck and meets under his 
chin in front, leaving nothing of his face visible except a pair of large, 
steel-gray eyes, a nose that may develop into something better than 
the nondescript it is as he grows older, and cheeks ruddy with health. 
His carriage is defiant and haughty, and he has a trick which we re- 
member to have seen once before, of suddenly lifting his face to take 
a level and imperious look at whatever attracts him, by which move- 


2l6 


TANGLED PA THS. 


merit he reveals a square, dimpled chin, and a firm, handsome mouth. 
He strides up to the station ante-room, and an attendant, knowing 
his rank, rushes forward to receive orders. 

“ Kwas and a crust. Here ! ” is the brief, peremptory answer. 

“ But, noble master, we have Chateau d’Yquem and Moet, and — ” 
suggested the obsequious lacquey. 

“ Kwas or nothing. Begone ! ” he replies, passing up the plat- 
form. One of the female peddlers has spied him, and, timidly ap- 
proaching him, uncovers* her wares. 

“ What should I do with such nonsense? Don’t you see that I 
am a man?” he says, with a quiet laugh. 

“ I’ve got a sick old mother, and two little ones who are hungry, 
noble master.” 

“ That’s what you all say ! ” he spurts out, but stops. 

“ For the sake of our Lady of Kazan, master — ” 

“ Here, what’s the price of these ?” he asks, taking up a pair of 
embroidered Toula slippers, and a cross of carved wood of work- 
manship so cunning that it was a marvel. Now he chaffers with her 
over the price, accuses her of trying to cheat him, good-naturedly 
though, and ends by giving her three roubles, just twice as much as 
she expected for the things, which he stuffs in the pocket of his caftan. 
Seeing her luck, the gypsies draw near and offer to reveal the future to 
him if he will only cross their palms with silver, and he hesitates, half 
inclined to humor their jugglery, for the boy has a hunger and thirst 
of the heart, to assuage which would make him ready to barter his 
soul if he could get just one dim peep into the future ; but he suddenly 
turns his back upon them, and is confronted by a waiter with the 
kwas , which he swallows, tosses a silver coin into the flagon, and 
goes back to the troika, where his high-mettled horses are pawing the 
frozen snow, wild to be off, and where the driver, enveloped, like every 
one else, in skins and furs, having swallowed a draught of absinthe from 
his pocket-flask, sits quite contentedly awaiting the St. Petersburg 
train, which is just visible far away over the white waste', like a huge 
beetle. The young traveler gets into the coupe ’, snaps to the door, 
and waits. He is the one we have been seeking ; and, having found 
him, will wait while he waits, and move with him when he moves. 
He had come away from St. Petersburg by the night train, and left 


TANGLED PATHS. 


21 7 


an important package which he had been commissioned by his aunt 
to fetch from her banker’s, where it had lain these many years, left 
it carelessly in his bedroom at the hotel, and did not find it out until 
he was many miles on his journey. He telegraphed at the next 
station to police headquarters to have the matter seen to, and the 
package forwarded by the train, for which he was then waiting, to 
this place, and we can imagine that his cogitations are none of the 
pleasantest as he sits there in the close little carriage fuming to him- 
self. The troika had met him at a branch station nearer home, the 
servants not knowing but that he might alight there, as he sometimes 
took it into his head to do, for there was no dependence to be placed 
upon his erratic movements ; and it was his way to pour out his 
wrath upon them if they were not at hand wherever he might please 
to leave the cars. And they were not astonished, being familiar 
with his freaks, when he ordered them to drive to the more distant 
station. He said nothing to them about the lost package ; but, 
having arrived there, sent his servant into the receiving-office, with 
his card, with orders to wait for anything that might be forwarded to 
his address. 

The train thundered up ; there was the usual stir and bustle ; and 
as it moved out of the station, his servant brought the parcel ; it 
had come, and was safe, and he thrust it impatiently into one of the 
pockets of the coupe. There was no further cause for delay ; the 
footman tightened the belt of his touloupe, pulled his sheepskin 
collar well up over the nape of his neck, and springing into his seat 
with the driver, the latter gave his horses the reins and they dashed 
forward into the white waste, the bitter, clear, still cold exhilara- 
ting them almost beyond control. The youngster within amusedly 
watched through the plate-glass window a wild race between a sleigh 
and a kibitki , both drawn by small, rough horses with flying manes 
and tails, which skimmed over the packed, frozen snow, taking no 
thought of buried roads and walled fields in their flight, until a white 
undulation hid them from his sight. Then his eyes wandered 
to the dark outline of firs far away on the horizon, and, clenching 
his hands, he drew his breath hard between his small white teeth, 
muttering : “ It will not be long before I find out what is beyond 
them. I’m tired of being treated like a lap-dog.” 


io 


218 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ The young master does very well in there on his warm cushions, 
but thou and I will be stiff frozen before we get home. I don’t see 
why he did not go on to Moscow in the railway-carriage, like a 
Christian, and have a good time with his cousins, instead of coming 
home, where it’s as dull as a prison ! ” said the footman, under his 
breath, to the driver. 

“ An open sled, with a Tartar horse fresh from the Steppes, would 
have pleased him best of all ; he don’t fancy, our young Count 
don’t, being kept in leading-strings like a girl. An old madame 
like our lady is not fit to bring up a lad like him. He’ll break the 
traces yet, like another wild one of his house did.” 

“ What ! who was that, Ivan ? was there another one of them ?” 

“ Hold thy tongue,” was the only reply he got; and he perforce 
reigned-in his curiosity, well knowing that when old Ivan put a fresh 
quid of tobacco between his teeth, no power of his could get another 
word out of him. 

“ I’ll find out. I’ve got something that will tempt old Fatiana 
to speak ; she knows all about the family ever since the flood ; and 
if she is a witch, as they say, she’ll not be witch enough to know 
that I bought it for Katrina and not for her,” thought he, with a 
quick nod of his head toward Ivan, which meant : “ I’m even with 
you, old fellow.” 

Within, the young Count stared with hungry eyes at the sledges 
of the fur-clad peasants and their shaggy Ukraine ponies scudding 
by like the wind ; he watched the long lines of crows flying home 
from the fir-forests to their nests in the Kremlin towers, shouting 
hoarsely as they beat the air with their black wings ; and he watched 
the glittering particles of snow put in motion by a breath from the 
Pole, that spangled the atmosphere as the westerly sun lighted up 
the wide-stretching wastes — all, all free, while he — 

The boy gnashed his teeth with an imprecation ; but by this time 
delicate foliated crystals formed upon the glass windows a frost-work 
of the most beautiful and fantastic traceries of palms and strange, 
weird scraps of landscape such as one imagines to be in the moon — 
then all became a white, semi-transparent blank, like porcelain ; he 
could no longer see the outside world, and flinging himself in a cor- 
ner, with no sound except the musical jingle of the bells on the 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


219 


horses, and the sweet, long-drawn harmony made by the rapid pas- 
sage of the steel runners over the frozen snow, he fell asleep like a 
tired child. 

The sun set, throwing far and wide streamers of crimson, and 
paler rose, and gleams of gold, over the snowy plains ; the full-orbed 
moon arose out of the grim twilight, transfusing the brief glow into 
silvery whiteness, as, after the fiery passion of life, death brings to 
the weary a pale, echoless calm which no storms of the morrow can 
disturb. But the young Count did not awake until the troika 
whirled through the lodge-gates into a stately avenue which led with 
many a graceful curve to a pile of buildings whose gray turrets and 
cupolas were outlined with picturesque distinctness against the sky. 
There was a sudden uproar of barking, yelping dogs, and calls and 
whistles from the stablemen to each other, who, in the deep silence 
prevailing but a moment before, had heard the bells and the hoof- 
beats of the horses as soon as they entered the grounds. Then the 
sudden cessation of motion and the din awoke the boy, who, spring- 
ing out of the coupe , seized Ivan’s whip and laid it fiercely about 
him, careless whether it struck man or dog. The curs and hounds 
ran yelping back to their kennels, the grooms put themselves out 
of his reach, for although one or two of them had caught a sharp 
flick of the lash on the face, his wrath was against the dogs, not 
against them. 

He ran up the broad stone steps and into the warm ante-room, 
where a servant held wide the door for his admission ; another serv- 
ant waited to divest him of his heavy wrappings, which were hung 
in their place on the wall, with others of the same fashion, and now 
we see that he is slender, and his whole bearing full of youthful 
audacity, that his head is well formed, and covered with short 
black curling hair ; that his forehead is broad, and that his features, 
which do not harmonize with each other, show antagonisms in his 
own nature which threaten his future with a stormy existence. 

^ While he was getting off his things, an old woman, bent with age, 
dressed in the quaint peasant garb of the Steppes, came in with 
noiseless steps, leaning upon a crutched stick, her face uplifted from 
her bowed neck, with a keen outlook in her small black eyes, which 
glowed like tw 7 o sparks far back in their sockets ; she stood a little 


220 


TANGLED PA THS. 


apart, watching his every movement, but making no sign to attract 
his attention. 

At last he turned toward the door leading into the interior of the 
house, and saw her ; then she welcomed him with a blessing ; it 
may have been a spell for luck she uttered, for they said she was a 
witch ; but whichever it was, all his haughty arrogance was gone, 
he smiled, spoke gently, and kissed her shriveled cheek. 

She was only his nurse. 

“ The blessing of St. Sergius be with thee, my son,” she said* 
She could not be a witch, then, for St. Sergius, above all other 
saints of the schismatic Greek Church, is the one most honored. 
“Thy aunt is waiting for thee in her gilded cage.” 

“She’s always waiting for me,” he said bitterly. “There’s some- 
thing for thee,” he added, giving her the gold-embroidered Toula 
slippers which he had bought at the station ; then he started to go 
to his aunt, but, suddenly bethinking himself of something, he rushed 
back to the ante-room and gave an order to one of the servants in a 
tone that sent him off toward the stable with mad speed, through 
the bitter cold, at the risk of getting a frozen nose or frozen ears. 

It was for the unfortunate package, which he had once more for- 
gotten, and left in the pocket of the coupe. 

“ I’d like to pitch it into the furnace,” muttered the young Count, 
when it was brought to him in quick time ; “ some old musty non- 
sense, or parchments not worth a kreutzner . Go to the steward for 
a tankard of kwas , to warm you,” he added, with a nod to the man 
whose very life had been periled by his carelessness. 

Then he hastily entered an inner hall, which led into a suite of 
apartments more like an Idyl of Fairyland than one ever sees in the 
softer climes of the South, which presented so delicious a contrast 
to the savage cold of the fierce winter outside that it was easy to 
imagine one’s self transported to the enchanting regions of the East. 
At one end of the apartment a painted porcelain stove — itself a 
pictured gem — reached from the floor to the high ceiling, through 
the narrow fretwork openings of which could be seen the glow of 
the great fire within, that threw beautiful red shadows like traceries 
of burnished gold over the walls and furniture ; this, with hot-air 
pipes, diffused a summer warmth, which the close double windows, 


TANGLED PA THS. 


221 


packed between with sand, prevented from escaping. The windows 
were concealed by flowers and shrubs brought from the tropics, 
oleanders, orange-trees, jasmines, and hugh scarlet-blooming gera- 
niums, all in flower, while palms, magnolias, and camellias, grown 
to a great height, mingled their feathery leaves and superb flowers 
with the grotesque friezes of the cornices. Orchids of every hue 
fluttered like gay-plumaged birds from the chandeliers ; Irish ivies 
and other trailing vines hung pendant from the brackets and fell 
in garlands and festoons out of huge marble vases in which tall ferns 
and Indian plants put forth gorgeous blooms. It was like a Con- 
gress of flowers assembled from every quarter of the earth. There 
was also a profusion of costly French furniture and mirrors, such as 
one finds all over the world in the houses of the rich and luxurious ; 
but there were features here which made these apartments different 
from others, and gave them a distinct national character, for besides 
the profusion of flowers on every hand, and the porcelain stoves, 
and the summer warmth, there were niches here and there in the 
wall lined with malachite or encrusted with lap is -lazuli, in which 
religious pictures framed in gold niello - work were suspended, with 
perfumed lamps burning before them. Here in the richest central 
niche is a painting of the Virgin Mother and her Divine Babe, 
there, one of St. Sergius turning the battle on the banks of the Don 
by his prayers ; on this side a martyr, on that a confessor, all in 
the Byzantine style, on backgrounds of gold, grim delineations, 
without grace or beauty, which is a characteristic of that school ; 
but they represented the religious idea sought to be conveyed, 
which was sufficient for devotion. There were also statues of the 
Czars and Czarinas, raised on pedestals, conspicuous among the 
flowers, and, yet more strange, a bust of the great Napoleon. 
There, two or three Tyches, one or more Popafs,* and several fine 
views in water-colors, lit up the third apartment of the suite, the 
glowing tints and masterly touches of the Russian artists throwing 
the Byzantine holinesses into the shade. Occupying a corner of the 
lofty room is a boudoir of delicate and costly wood in carved open- 
work, where is displayed all that delicate attention to detail peculiar 


* Eminent Russian painters. 


222 


TANGLED PATHS. 


to the Chinese workmanship, over which, in and out through the 
light gilded trellis, rare climbing plants have been taught to weave 
themselves. Among the luxuries of rosewood and silken cushions 
of Parisian make scattered about so profusely, yet not crowding the 
spacious room, and not far from the boudoir, stands an immense 
stuffed bear, whose back answers for a sofa, if the brute’s aspect, 
savage with gleaming tusks and red, protruding tongue, does not in- 
duce one to pass him by holding one’s skirts. Several little stuffed 
brown cubs answer for footstools. 

Do not imagine that we have drawn upon our imagination or the 
Arabian Nights’ Entertainments for all these details, for they are to 
be seen in all Russian houses belonging to the noble and wealthy 
classes. Their love for almost Oriental splendor comes from their 
Mongolian blood, combined with the necessity forced upon them by 
the rigors of their climate, and the long white winters, to have warmth 
and beauty within their homes at any cost. 

We see all this as the stripling walks down the long rooms, 
stumbling over one of the stuffed cubs, which he kicks aside, toward 
the vine-covered nook in the corner, which the Tarter witch called 
a u gilded cage,” awhile ago, where an aged lady, in wadded silk 
garments, high silk coif, and sable-bordered velvet cape, who is half 
reclining in a chaise-lounge, is reading by the light of a shaded 
lamp. She is intent on the devotional page, and does not know of 
his presence — being slightly deaf — until he touches her hand, when 
she starts, closes her book hastily, and as he drops on one knee be- 
fore her she lays one of her small, clawlike hands upon his head and 
mutters a blessing. 

He is evidently relieved when, this ceremony being over, he 
hands her the package from her bankers in St. Petersburg, without 
a word of its misadventures, and takes his seat on a tabouret in 
front of her, quite near her, however, that she may more conveni- 
ently hear what he says. She commends him for bringing the im- 
portant package safely ; then, breaking the seals, she opens it, un- 
wraps with eager, trembling fingers folds of soft paper, and, lastly, 
of silk, until she comes to an old, worn shagreen case, the spring- 
lock of which she knows the secret, and presses the knob — one of 
many, and all alike — which is the “ open sesame ” to its treasures. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


223 


The lid flew back ; and the boy, who was watching her proceedings 
with curious eyes, wondering what would come next, was suddenly 
dazzled by the sight of several large diamonds of such brilliance and 
size that they seemed to illuminate with the most beautiful prismatic 
flashes the space around them. 

“ What if I had lost them ? ” was his first thought, and it nearly 
choked him ; for although he had never seen them before, he had 
all his life heard of these diamonds, which were once set in the 
crown of his ancestors, the Tartar kings of Russia. 

“ You see, Dimitri, what trust I reposed in thee ! ” she said, 
closing the casket with a snap. 

“ I am honored, madame my aunt,” he replied, bowing, while 
his face crimsoned. “ I hope thou hast been well in my ab- 
sence ? ” 

“Yes, as well as the old can be. And thou? I hope thou hast 
come home with a more contented heart.” 

The young Count arose from his knee with an impatient gesture, 
and drawing a tabouret toward his aged relative, he flung himself 
upon it. Perhaps he did not hear her question, for he made no 
reply, but with one elbow resting upon his knee, he sat trifling with 
his heavy gold watch-chain, which by some accident had escaped 
from the folds of his caftan, his eyes moodily cast down. 

“ Thy journey was pleasant ?” she again asked. 

“ Pleasant had it been longer,” was the slow answer. The 
smouldering fires of the boy’s pent-up life were flaming up ; he felt 
that he must speak then, and there, or suffocate. 

“ Where, then, dost thou wish to go ? ” she asked, in a severe 
tone — while if one had looked closely he would have seen a white 
sparkle in her eyes which was a warning to those who knew 
the Princess Dimitri-Douskoi best, not to presume too far. But 
she had great powers of self-restraint, and she saw that a patient 
exercise of them was necessary if she hoped to hold the reins of 
this boy’s fiery will with a steady hand. 

“ Go ! Beyond the mountains and the seas, until I get to the 
end of the world ! I am hungry with unrest.” 

“ Foolish boy ! The young always long for tha* which is beyond 
their reach. Dost thou not see how impossible it is for thee, the 


224 


TANGLED PA THS. 


only heir of our ancient house, to do as others do ? The Emperor 
would forbid thy traveling abroad/’ 

“ Would he?” he interrupted, with an intonation that had de- 
fiance in it. 

44 Thou art too young, and forget that thou art to have a commis- 
sion in the Grand Duke’s regiment as soon as thy education is 
finished.” 

44 To be one of the carpet knights of the Palace?” he asked, 
with a scornful smile. 

44 Yes, if the Emperor so wills it. But thou needest not fear too 
much ease ; there is a time not far distant when Russia will send 
her armies to drive back with fire and sword the foes that are 
already pressing too closely upon her frontiers. Then, Dimitri, thy 
daring, reckless spirit will find its true element. Canst thou not 
wait ? ” 

44 Wait, your Highness ! Can I hurry on the years? I am a raw 
boy, by thy account, not fit to be out of leading-strings. I must 
wait until my beard grows, until my tutors have done with me, until 
my commission comes from the War Office, and then go on waiting 
until the Turks or some of the rest bring a war upon themselves ! 
It seems like waiting for the end of the world ! ” he exclaimed, 
chafing. • 

44 But it will come. By and by, that which holds thee will be 
loosed, and thou free ! ” 

44 Free ! ” he cried with bitter scorn, and a laugh that did not 
mean mirth. 44 If I can not be free in the way I wish, what need 
is there to keep me swathed up in intolerable mysteries that gall 
me and evade me like tormenting ghosts ? It rouses me to fury. 
I won’t stand it ! If care is not taken I shall do something that 
will bring hot shame on the house of Douskoi. I might as well be 
in Siberia.” 

Dinner was announced. The Princess arose, and took the angry 
boy’s arm, who restrained his impatient steps to suit her more slow 
and feeble ones. 44 1 am a very old woman, Dimitri, thou seest,” 
she said, as they moved toward the dining-hall. 

The boy felt the implied rebuke, and the blood surged up into 
his face ; had he, then, behaved like a coward, using violent language 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


225 


and showing scorn and bitterness toward his aged kinswoman ? 
He clinched his white, even teeth together for a moment to bite 
back the angry words that rose to his lips, then said : “ I am not 
walking too fast, I hope, madame my aunt ?” 

“No, thou art a good staff to lean upon ; the aged require 
support.” 

Again Dimitri understood the motif of her remark and felt 
ashamed, but not in the least repentant ; but they had reached the 
dining-hall, where the savory cheese, salt herring, Bologna sausage, 
olives, and other relishes spread upon the small round dinner-table 
whetted the boy's wholesome appetite, already sharpened by his 
long journey, and made him forget for the moment his angry 
mood and the grievances that had kindled it. The meal was taken 
almost in silence. A French course followed the appetizing relishes, 
which always precede the Russian dinner, but Count Dimitri, way- 
ward in everything, preferred the black, rye bread to white, agourcies , 
to the entrees of trouffles and partridges ; he hated the French, and 
nothing could tempt him to partake of French dishes. But chtchi , 
a compound of mutton, fennel, onions, cabbage, carrots, barley, and 
prunes, which made one of the courses, he ate with a savage relish, 
and the steward knew better than to offer the young tyrant cham- 
pagne instead of kwas. Moor-fowl, bear’s ham, and vegetables raised 
under glass — fruits, confections, and pastry, succeeded each other, 
and he managed not only to make a very fair meal, but to enjoy it. 

“You saw the blessing of the Neva, I hope?” remarked the 
Princess after the servants had removed the dishes, and they were 
left quite alone, he trifling with some Sicilian grapes in a Sevres 
china stand which had formed the center-piece of the table. 

“ Oh, yes, I was there, madame my aunt ; I was invited to the 
Palace, and saw everything that went on in the chapel first. The 
piiests and acolytes — the one in dalmatics stiff with gold, the other 
in narcaret velvet braided with silver — were half hidden by the 
Iconostase. I heard the chanting of the choristers, and caught 
glimpses of the Emperor and the imperial family amidst the glitter 
and splendor of the sanctuary, but the Iconostase with its jeweled 
fretwork was between us. I suppose I got a blessing with the rest ; 
but I don’t know about such matters.” 


226 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“ It must have been a very splendid spectacle,” remarked the 
Princess. “ It has been many long years since I beheld it.” 

“ That was nothing to the sight of the soldiers, thousands of them 
standing like statues on the frozen river, the Circassians, the Les- 
ghines, and the Cossacks, their uniforms glittering, fierce, savage- 
looking fellows, worth looking at ; and the sound of the great can- 
nons, while the crowds — I did not know there were so many people 
in the world — that lined the shores shouted and huzzaed.” 

“ But the procession, and the blessing of the Neva?” 

“ I saw the Emperor and his family looking into a square hole 
cut through the ice, over which the high-priest, or whatever he may 
be, was busy ; and I heard them chanting between the roars of the 
cannon ; but it did not interest me much, I was watching the sol- 
diers, and wondering how they’d look in battle.” 

“ It was not strange at thy age, perhaps. But what else interested 
thee after that ? ” 

“ The races on the frozen river. Whew ! it was the j oiliest sight 
I ever beheld ! I wish that thou hadst been there to see it, ma- 
dame my aunt ! ” exclaimed the boy, kindling with enthusiasm at 
the remembrance. “ Such superb horses ! such gay trappings ! 
and wild excitement everywhere and in every face.” 

“ Of course the race was won by Orlov horses ? ” asked the Prin- 
cess, kindling up to the boy’s humor. 

“ Not by a long shot ! ” he exclaimed, laughing. 

“ I hope the English barbs did not win ! ” she said, eagerly. 

“ No. A fellow who had brought wood to St. Petersburg that 
morning in his sled, with three wild, shaggy ponies that looked like 
unlicked bears, entered the lists, and — won by a minute and a 
half. It was jolly ! There never was such commotion, such ex- 
'citement and cheering ; and he was offered three thousand roubles 
apiece for his horses, but he wouldn’t part with them. He 
wrapped the silver prize they had won in a greasy old sheep- 
skin, tossed it into his sled, and then drove off as unconcernedly 
as possible.” 

“ He should not have been allowed to enter the lists. A serf ! 
It was disgraceful ! ” said the aged Princess, straightening herself up 
and throwing back her haughty old head. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


227 

“ He won though ! ” answered the young Count, defiantly. “ Why 
shouldn’t he, when he beat fairly, serf or no serf?” 

The Princess did not notice his ebullition ; he often made such 
crude speeches, which she thought savored of the French Revolu- 
tion and of that other country far away on the other side of the 
world whose watchword was Freedom, and whose grand Re- 
public made the tyrants of the earth afraid ; she knew by former 
experiments that any attempt on her part to oppose what she con- 
sidered his heretical and leveling sentiments would only kindle him 
into a frenzy of excitement that would overcome and silence her by 
its violence ; she was too old now for such contentions, especially 
with him, who, for the most important reasons, it was absolutely 
necessary should not be irritated beyond the control of his un- 
reasoning and reckless will ; and she changed the subject, the white 
scintillating gleam in her eyes being all that betrayed the anger and 
humiliation of her heart. 

44 And hast thou nothing to tell me of St. Isaac’s, its frescoes, its 
pictures, its bas-reliefs, its magnificence, Dimitri ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, madatne my aunt.” he answered, in a tone of indiffer- 
ence ; 44 but it was nothing to the races, except the Iconostase, 
which is a blaze of precious stones and gold. There’s nothing in 
Moscow itself to equal it.” 

44 Moscow is old, my son ; it is the center of Holy Russia ; all 
that we have at Moscow has come out of the saintly ages, even 
the bones of our dead,” answered the old Princess, with a stately 
air. 

“ It is all the same to me,” said the young reprobate. 44 I am 
tired of old things, old lands, old tyrannies, and old churches, and 
I shall never rest until I get to America — young America ! — where 
all men are free ! Free ! ah, God ! what a word that is ! ” 

44 Take care thou dost not go to Siberia first ! ” she answered, in 
a low tone of concentrated wrath. 44 Dost thou not know that 
walls have ears ? ” 

44 1 would not stay there long, madame my aunt,” he replied, 
audaciously. 44 But excuse me if I go to bed ; I am very tired, and 
my mood is not a heavenly one.” 

44 That is very evident, Dimitri ; but give me thy arm to the 


228 


TANGLED PATHS 


library, and Send Isaac to me. I have a matter of business to talk 
over with him before going to rest.” 

With courteous and almost tender care, strangely at variance 
with his usual brusque, impetuous manner, the boy conducted the 
aged Princess to the library ; and after assisting her to the chair, 
placed a cushioned footstool under her feet, drew her fur-lined 
cloak well up around her shoulders, kissed her hand, and bade her 
good-night. 

44 Go sleep off thy discontent, Dimitri, and may our Lady of 
Kazan have thee in her keeping.” 

Released at last, he hurried toward his own room. He was not 
tired, but he wanted to be alone. His kinswoman’s presence was 
insupportable to him at times, for he had a consciousness that it 
was not only by her will that he was held fast, like a fierce young 
falcon by its jesses to its lady’s wrist, but that she withheld from 
him some mystery connected with his life, the very thought of which 
galled and fretted him. He was the great-nephew of the Princess, 
and heir of the house of Dimitri-Douskoi' ; they had told him years 
before that his father was dead, and that his mother, after her widow- 
hood, had retired to the Convent of Troitza, near Moscow. He 
had been taken to see her two or three times, but he was glad to 
escape from the presence of the pale, passionless woman, in whose 
nature the maternal instinct appeared to be dead. If she was his 
mother, he felt thankful that she was where she couldn’t be hover- 
ing about his daily life, like a gray ghost, all the time. 

Reaching the door of his apartments, the young Count flung him- 
self in and closed and locked it before he saw that the old woman, 
who had met him in the ante-room when he came home that night, 
was there, looking more quaint and eerie by the flare of the lamp 
near which she stood, whose rays sparkled here and there over the 
spangles on her povinik, as her head trembled with the effort of 
looking up. There in the great gloomy room, standing in the nar- 
row space illuminated by the lamp above her, she did not look un- 
like one’s ideal of a 44 Tartar witch,” the soubriquet attached to her 
by common consent. Her face was like a brown shriveled apple, 
and she had a habit of peering with so keen an outlook at every 
object she encountered, as if she were perpetually on the watch for 


TANGLED PA THS. 


229 


something or some one she was ever expecting, that the ignorant 
always crossed themselves when they met her, believing that she 
had the “ evil eye.” Others said she must be a witch, for didn’t she 
come from the land of the Genii beyond the Amoor ? And then 
her crutched stick, which she could not walk without — being crip- 
pled with rheumatic pains — which clicked like a castanet upon the 
floors or the tesselated flags of the halls and corridors as she moved 
about, and which she had learned to use with wonderful adroitness 
upon the head of a saucy mujik, a refractory dog, or a lazy servant, 
if they crossed her path, had not that stick some evil magic power 
in it also ? 

“ The superstitious heretics ! let them believe me a witch ; what 
care I ? ” she muttered one day, when she overheard a group of the 
servant-men swearing at her and saying all manner of things about 
her, little dreaming that she was within ear-shot. “ They dare not 
harm me, thinking me to be a witch, while I wait and watch.” 

There she was, where she had been ever since the young Count 
came home, afraid that by some mischance she should miss seeing 
him elsewhere, her head covered with the spangled red velvet povi- 
nik, her bent figure arrayed in a green robe of woolen damask, and 
a shorter tunic of crimson cloth trimmed with broad gold galloon^ 
the peasant holiday dress of her country out on the Steppes, which 
she had never laid aside or changed to suit the fashions or customs 
around her. Her gray hair hung loose from under her povinik over 
her shoulders, adding no little to the grotesqueness of her appear- 
ance. She was the only living being that the boy Dimitri loved and 
entirely trusted. But now he pretended to be angry, and did not 
speak as he flung himself round. She was always patient with his 
moods, and she took no notice, but turned to go away. 

“ Where are you going?” he growled. 

“ To bed, master.” 

“To the moon, maybe. Take me along, won’t you ?” 

“ When I go, noble Count. Good-night.” 

“ Come back and forgive me, Fatiana. Oh, I’m in such a mood 
as you can’t imagine ! and you, you are cruel like the rest of them ; 
you know all that I’m starving to know, and won’t speak ! ” he ex- 
claimed, passionately. 


230 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Who says I know ? ” 

“I say it. You are older than my aunt, and have been here all 
your life — ” 

“ My life has been a very long one. Don’t you know that people 
who stay in the world so long die at least three times : after their 
first youth, after middle age, and at threescore-and-ten ? How, then, 
can the dead remember ? ” she said, speaking slowly. 

“ No, I don’t know anything so nonsensical as that; and if you 
chose you could tell me all that I wish to learn. You and the prin- 
cess, my aunt, pretend that there’s nothing ; but I know there’s a 
mystery about myself that you hold back from me. I feel it like a 
shadow all the time, and you can not deceive me. Come now, maman , 
tell me something about myself,” said the boy, in winning tones 
of entreaty, as he led her to a chaise-lounge and sat down on a low 
camp-stool in front of her, his eyes lifted to hers, a childlike smile 
about his mouth, her hand folded between both of his. There was 
a flickering expression in her eyes, the lids quivered, and she cast 
them down to avoid the scrutiny of his. 

“ You know all that I have to tell,” she at last answered. 

“ No, I don’t, not by half ; but I’ll find out for myself if I die for 
it. Ah, I know some things that you think I never heard. I know 
that the knout was laid upon the soles of your feet once by order ot 
the Princess Dimitri-Dousko'i, until the flesh was like a jelly, be- 
cause you were a Roman Catholic and would not attend the Greek 
Masses.” 

“ Does not that appear incredible to you ? But where did you 
learn it ? I do not deny my faith ; that is my concern.” 

“ Oh, a bird told me ; and the same bird will tell me all the rest, 
if you won’t.” 

“ Unhappy child ! May Our Blessed Lady of Perpetual Succor 
dispel these clouds of unrest from your brain. Consider how bril- 
liant a destiny awaits you : and what power to do good will be 
yours ! why, then, waste your energies in a fever of curiosity that 
will never be gratified ? ” 

“ I hate it all ! I spit upon it ! I want the mystery of my life 
unraveled; after that, freedom such as the wild horses of the Step- 
pes, and the black eagles of the frozen North have ! I tell you 


TANGLED PATHS. 


23I 


my heart can’t beat — I suffocate, tied down here by a dark secret ! 
I hate all the state and splendor of my condition, and I believe I 
shall kill myself or somebody else, in my desperation, if I am not 
satisfied.” 

“ My son, these are the words of a madman. Men control them- 
selves.” 

“ Ah ! why are you so cruel? the only being that I love ! ” cried 
the boy, bursting into a passion of tears. 

“Kill me, Dimitri, my nurseling,” she said, in faltering tones ; “it 
would be better than this. Oh, how you hurt me ! you don’t know 
how bitterly you hurt me ! ” 

“ Tell me then ! ” 

“Wait!” she answered, as she arose and went toward the 
door. 

“ How long ? tell me how long ? ” he cried, grasping her tunic 
and holding her back. 

“ Until the time comes,” she answered solemnly, as she confront- 
ed him, with one skinny hand uplifted as if in warning. 

He let her go. He was satisfied now that it was no chimera 
which had been tormenting him, waking and dreaming, wherever he 
was, all these years ; and she would reveal it to him ; she had prom- 
ised it, and it was a tradition of the house that the old Tartar woman 
had never been known to go back on her word. Yes, he would know 
what this mystery was that had like a thorn so pierced and wounded 
his young life ; but when ? 

Count Dimitri was awakened the next morning by a loud rapping 
on his door. He opened his eyes and found the sun shining across 
his face. He felt a strange lightness of heart, as if a shadow had 
gone out of it. His energies, recuperated by healthful slumbers, had 
now all the buoyancy of youth, instead of being oppressed by haunt- 
ing thoughts full of dark suspicion and uncertainty. He remember- 
ed at once old Fatiana’s promise, and henceforth he would throw 
care to the winds until it should be fulfilled. Another rap. Throwing 
his quilted robe de chambre , lined with the finest fleece, about him, for 
the cold was intense, he opened the door and found old Isaac, the 
steward, waiting with a message from his mistress. “There was to 
be a bear-hunt, and three or four young fellows of his own class were 


232 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


expected to breakfast with him at eleven : would he please be ready 
in time to meet them? ,, 

Ready ! of course ! who would not be ready with such fun as a 
bear-hunt in prospect, to say nothing of his jolly comrades, who 
were coming? 

This was the business that the Princess wanted to talk over with 
"her steward the night before, that the chief huntsman of the estate 
might have all things speedily arranged, and the young gentlemen 
be invited in time to share in the exciting amusement of the hunt 
with her nephew. She knew that energies and aspirations like Dim- 
itri’s required something on which to expend themselves, and she 
determined to spare no pains to provide objects to this end, which 
would, she hoped, keep him out of mischief until the time arrived 
for him to enter on his career of arms in the Imperial service. 
Then, she imagined, he would be so occupied, so constrained by 
the honor of the military code, and under discipline so strong, that 
his wild, reckless spirit and rebellious will would be toned down 
within safe limits. 

The smart of yesterday’s mood was not altogether dispersed by 
the sunshine of the new day ; and while the young Count was dress- 
ing, it irked him sorely to know that guests were coming who would 
as a matter of course occupy the time &nd attention that he had 
meant to devote to the solution of the mystery, which, like the 
meshes of an invisible net, hampered his life ; not that he disliked 
the gay, dashing young fellows, who were of his own age and rank, 
and whom he had known ever since he could remember, only he 
felt convinced that his aunt’s secret motive for bringing them to- 
gether just now was to divert his mind from dwelling upon thoughts 
that might lead to the discovery of things which she was determined 
he should remain ignorant of. 

“She can’t always treat me like a boy, or hoodwink me either. 
She’s very old — not that I want her life curtailed by a day — and by 
and by, in the nature of things, she’ll get too feeble to meddle ; while 
I — I will be getting strength every day, like a young eagle, and 
when my wings will be grown, then — zip ! — I’m off,” he said, defi- 
antly, while he tugged at his necktie, and tore out button-holes in 
his impatience to get the studs through them. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


233 


Just then the jingling of sleigh-bells, the sound of merry voices, 
and peals of laughter from below announced the arrival of his 
friends, and he hastened down to meet them as they came springing 
up the broad stone steps leading to the hall door. Warmly he wel- 
comed them, and soon he was rattling and chaffing and jesting with 
them, while they were getting out of their touloupes and other wraps 
in the ante-room, as if no care had ever disturbed his mind, so pow- 
erful is the sympathetic magnetism of youth to disperse the tragic 
elements that circumstances or shadowy presentiments not un fre- 
quently throw around it. 

The Princess Dimitri-Douskoi was confined to her house by a 
sudden attack of rheumatic gout that had seized her in the night, 
which threw the boy yet more upon his own resources for the enter- 
tainment of his guests. She sent for him after lunch, and when he 
saw her face, half-buried among her pillows, looking so pale and 
shrunken, all the savagery of the young Count’s nature fled back 
to its lair, and he inwardly reproached himself for the hard, bitter 
thoughts that had turned his heart against her. He did not know 
that this was the way she usually looked when divested of the aids 
of the toilette, for he had never seen her so before — or that she was 
suffering no more than the ordinary twinges of pain incident to her 
malady, which never prevented her moving about as usual, up-stairs 
or down. It is well that he did not ; his voice would not have been 
toned to such gentleness, and it would have been a thousand pities 
for the kindlier impulses of his heart to have been driven back upon 
themselves by a sense of imposture, for there is nothing that so 
quickly embitters one’s nature and fills it with distrust as for its in- 
nocent credulity and faith in humankind to be shaken even by small 
frauds and pretenses. 

“Thank thee, my son,” she said, in response to his inquiries, 
and speaking feebly. “ These attacks are of uncertain duration, 
and I may not be able to meet thy young guests ; but do not 
let that interrupt their pleasures or thine. Tell them so from 
me. I have given orders to the steward and to my chief hunts- 
man to obey thee as myself. Everything is at thy disposal, and 
I hope thou wilt show the same princely hospitality to thy friends 
that the men of thy race and the heirs of our house have ever 


234 


TANGLED PA THS. 


shown to theirs. Hospitality is a traditional virtue in the house of 
Douskoi.” 

The boy kissed the shriveled hand that lay upon the eider-down 
quilt, thanked her for her kindness, hoped she would be “ all right ” 
by to-morrow, and ran off to find the chief huntsman, to ascertain 
at what hour they were to start out on the bear-hunt. This did not 
take long, as the man — as rugged and straight as a mountain pine, 
with a keen, frosty sparkle in his light blue eyes, and spangles of ice 
still upon his full beard — was waiting for him in the hall. The sense 
of his new authority made the young Count swagger just a little* 
it was natural ; but he pretty soon found out that if he did not want 
the chief huntsman to consider him a silly boy, and laugh at him in 
the bargain, he had better hold his peace, and leave matters entirely 
to him. The arrangements were all made, and everything in readi- 
ness — guns, spears, hunting-knives, sleds, and dogs — to start imme- 
diately, if the young Count and his friends wished to ; and if not, 
when would it please them to go ? 

“ It would be better to start at once,” he continued, “ for it will 
take long to reach the forest, then the game is to be driven in — ” 

“ Won’t it be jollier to hunt them down by torchlight? That’s 
the way they do in Dalicaria.” 

“ We do that sometimes in Russia, but not from choice,” an- 
swered the old huntsman, with a grim chuckle. 

“ Very well — any way, so we bring our game down,” said Dimi- 
tri, as he bounded up the great staircase in search of his friends, 
whom, as he had expected, he found in the billiard- room. Full of 
fun and merriment, and highly excited by the prospect of adventure, 
and maybe peril, the young fellows did not take long to envelope 
themselves in their touloupes and furs, and tumble themselves pell- 
mell into the troika, where cushioned seats, and furs and blankets of 
scarlet cloth, fleece-lined, kept out the piercing cold. The hardy 
Tartar horses dashed off, jingling their bells ; and the hunter, serv- 
ants, dogs, and traps followed in smaller sleds, all merry, exhilarated, 
and full of expectation. 

Although we do not mean to tire your patience by describing a 
bear-hunt in Russia, you will hear something of this one a little fur- 
ther on. Each day brought new and exciting amusement that 


TANGLED PA TFIS. 


235 


stirred up the young blood of Dimitri and his friends to acts of the 
most impetuous daring ; up and down over the frozen snows ; skim- 
ming the ice-bound rivers by torchlight ; skirting along the edges of 
the black forests, reckless of the hungry wolves baying in their deep 
recesses ; racing with the shaggy Ukraine horses they met here and 
there in the sleds of the peasants, filled up the time while they were 
out ; and feasting and revelry, far into the night, after their return. 

Every evening the chief huntsman made his report to the Princess ; 
he was carrying out her orders faithfully, and she nodded her head 
approvingly while he related the proceedings of each day, and laid 
before her his plans for the next. 

“Young men must be amused, to keep them out of mischief/’ 
she said. “These sports will strengthen the young Count, and 
help to make a brave soldier of him for our Emperor.” 

“ Your Highness might well be proud if you saw how he charged 
that monstrous bear we brought home three days ago. The beast 
was taller than I am when he reared up on his haunches, ready to 
leap upon our young Count ; I thought he was gone, your Highness ; 
but he ran his spear down the fellow’s red throat, and while the 
huge beast struggled and beat about with his great paws, the blood 
spirting like fountains from his jaws, he got at his hunting-knife- — 
pff ! — and down he tumbled — the bear I mean — with a cleft in his 
heart that let out his life. It was grand sport, your Highness!” 
said the man, proudly, and highly excited by the remembrance of 
the most deadly conflict he had ever witnessed between a stripling 
and a savage beast. 

“That was bravely done ! And did the rest of them see it?” 
asked the Princess, whose eyes sparkled with white light, while the 
blood, quickened by some natural heroic instinct, made her old 
face glow. 

“ Every one, your Highness ! He was ahead of them all ; but it 
was his game, and ” — the old huntsman laughed — “ they stood there 
biting their tongues while he slew the beast, he, the youngest of 
them all.” 

“ But he should have given way, by the laws of courtesy, to his 
guests ; at least offered ; that used to be a rule in the old times.” 

“ He did, your Highness ; but while they hung back, the bear was 


236 


TANGLED PA THS. 


upon him, and he had no choice left but to kill or be killed,” was 
the answer. 

The old Princess bridled hei head with pride on hearing of the 
boy’s exploit, and murmured under her breath, “That was the 
stirring of his father’s blood in his veins.” Then she gave the chief 
huntsman a gold rouble, and asked him what he had ready for the 
diversion of the young men on the morrow. 

“ Rare sport, your Highness. I met a party of Samoyeds in their 
reindeer sleds, this evening ; they had been to the races on the 
Neva, and were on their way back to their own country, but I 
coaxed them into hiring their sleds — reindeers and all, your High- 
ness, for it was no manner of use to try and get one without the 
other, not if I had offered a thousand roubles — and to-morrow our 
young Count and his friends will have a reindeer race. There be 
ten, all told, of the fleet-footed things, their limbs clean, and their 
hoofs like steel.” 

“ How fortunate ! The novelty will please Dimitri — and his 
friends,” she added. “ I am pleased with your diligence in execu- 
ting my orders. Do not let any harm come to the Count or to his 
friends. Young people are so reckless ! You may go now.” The 
man bowed and went out. She was left quite alone. 

“ Surely,” she said, “ this is glory enough to satisfy the boy for 
the present, and arouse his interest in sports suitable to his age and 
rank. Who ever heard of so daring a feat as the slaying of that 
bear, that monster in size and weight ! How proud Fatiana will 
be when I tell her ! It will make her young again ! ” Then she 
suddenly remembered that she had not seen Fatiana for two days. 
She touched her hand-bell, and a lacquey entered. 

“ Send Fatiana to me, Feodor.” 

“Where is she, your Highness?” 

“ What then ! is she lost ? ” 

“ Nobody knows, your Highness ; no one has seen her these two 
days ; and — and you know, your Highness, they do say she have 
witch blood — ” 

“ Silence ! Send to her hut and see if she is there. I fear she 
is ill. Don’t come back without news from her.” 

Feodor made a hasty exit, muttering, as he closed the door : 


TANGLED PATHS. 


23 7 


“ And they do say, too, she have gone skylarking on a broomstick.” 
He knew well enough that his mistress was slightly deaf, and would 
not hear him, but he also knew that he must do her bidding, come 
what would of it. It was easy enough to inquire of every one he 
met on his way to the steward’s office if they could tell him where 
the old Tartar nurse was, but no one knew or cared anything about 
her ; she had no friends, and when they recollected that they had not 
seen her peering about for two whole days they hoped she might 
never come back, it would be such a relief to be rid of her forever. 
They were ready enough to gossip about her, but as soon as it was 
understood that the Princess had ordered a messenger to be sent to 
P'atiana’s hut to find out the cause of her absence, each one got 
out of the way as quickly as possible, and the steward seized on the 
unfortunate Feodor, and two farm laborers who had come up to beg 
for some repairs on their dilapidated dwellings, and ordered them to 
go forthwith to see if the woman were living, dead, or gone. The 
rule of this household was despotic, and they knew there was no 
appeal ; they must either go, or submit to the usual penalty for in- 
subordination, the bastinado ; so, wrapping their hooded touloupes 
about them, they sallied forth with lanterns, muttering curses not 
loud, but deep, and keeping huddled together in a compact group as 
they crossed the fields toward Fatiana’s lonely hut, which the last 
heir, the father of Dimitri — whom she had nursed from his earliest 
infancy, and watched over with the jealous tenderness of a mother 
until the hour that he went away in hot wrath from his home to re- 
turn no more — had built for her over yonder against the rocks, al- 
most hidden from view by a thick plantation of pines and firs, and 
furnished it out of his own small means in the usual style of the 
w r ell-to-do peasants of the country ; she would consent to nothing 
better, although it would have better pleased his lavish generosity 
to surround her with more luxurious belongings. Although she 
spent much of her time in attendance on the Princess, this spot w r as 
her home, to which she could retire when sick or weary of the 
busier, noisier life of the great household, where she could dream 
over her past, and think and pray in solitude, without disturbance 
or molestation. It was only when Count Dimitri, whom she had 
brought up, like his father, from the cradle, came home for a holi- 


2 3 8 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


day that her life seemed stirred up with a strange, feverish anxiety, 
which brought her early from her hut, and kept her late, day after 
day, wandering up and down, or patiently waiting, deaf to the jeers 
and coarse jests of the servants at her expense, seemingly content 
if but once or twice she caught a glimpse of him or had a few 
kindly words from his lips. But it had never happened before, 
when he was at home, that she had not been seen as usual ; and a 
superstitious dread pervaded the household when it was whispered 
around that the “Tartar witch” was missing; and they were not 
slow in expressing their belief that the evil one had carried her off 
bodily. 

But Fatiana had not been carried off bodily, nor was she attend- 
ing a “ witches’ sabbath ” in some remote region unknown to man ; 
she was only very ill, racked with pains, and unable to rise from her 
low bed of skins and moss without severe agony, when obliged 
to feed her fire and brew some bitter stuff that she had great 
faith in as a remedy for rheumatic fever and swelled joints. But 
since noon, on this day, she had been unable to move ; a consum- 
ing fever parched her, and she lay feeble and moaning and praying, 
almost in her last extremity, longing and hoping that Heaven would 
send Dimitri to her before she died — died with a secret on her soul 
that belonged to him — a secret that he must know. Under her 
bedclothes, clasped tight in her bony fingers, close to her shriveled 
breast, she held a crucifix — the crucifix of the Latin Church — and 
her prayers in outbursts of bitter anguish were addressed to Christ 
and His Virgin Mother, Our Lady of Perpetual Succor. If she died 
before help came, who would there be to tell Dimitri that which he 
was hungering to know ? It would perish with her, and she had 
sworn on this very crucifix that he should hear it from her own lips. 
In the long, dark loneliness of the tedious hours, daylight excluded, 
and the delirium of fever working strange phantasms in her brain, 
one to whom her promise had been given, stood pale and threaten- 
ing before her in her fair, blighted youth, the eyes that had always 
shone kindly upon her, now stern and fixed. Turn where she 
would, there they were, piercing her soul, now entreating, now 
sorrowful, now upraised as if in appeal to Heaven against her. 
Then the darkness of unconsciousness fell mercifully upon her for 


TANGLED PA THS. 


239 


a space ; and as it passed away, a wonderful vision, as if wrought by 
the wand of an enchanter, disclosed itself ; she saw the wild, beau- 
tiful Steppes beyond the Amoor clothed in their summer glory of 
living green, dappled with tents and flocks, sparkling with rivulets, 
gemmed with wild-flowers, and framed in the blue distant outline of 
mountains; she saw graceful horses skimming the undulating plains, 
and the young Tartar chieftains in pursuit on their trained barbs, 
throwing the lasso, or sending their swift arrows at the luckless an- 
telopes and gazelles that crossed their path ; she saw young maidens 
with their lovers enjoying an idyllic life amidst these pastoral 
scenes ; there were the black camels’ -hair tents of the sheiks, where 
by the light of the full moon the “ wise women” of the tribes were 
relating, to the listening groups around them traditions of the genii, 
and of the far-off ages when the banished angels consorted with the 
daughters of men. Aha ! now the vision draws nearer, nearer ; she 
knows her, the beautiful, lissom maiden, the only daughter of the 
ruler of her people, now borne away like the wind by the young chief 
of a Southern tribe against which her own is at war, urging his des- 
ert barb to such speed that its hoofs scarcely bend the thick grass 
and wild-flowers over which it flies. Well may she know her, for it 
is herself, leaving father, mother, kindred, and friends, a disobe- 
dient, rebellious daughter, to wed the enemy of her race, and 
consort with the invaders of the land of her fathers. But they are 
pursued by fierce and angry horsemen, and she sees him fall dead 
upon the sands, pierced by arrows, while the frightened barb to whose 
thick, silken mane she clings, bears her away and away, through 
the long night, over hills, valleys, and swollen streams, she knew 
not whither ; she is faint with loss of blood, for the arrows of her 
kinsmen have also pierced her shoulder and side ; unconsciousness 
steals over her strained faculties, and she is happy in this oblivion 
of her miserable present, until aroused by the shock of her barb 
falling, spent and dying, near a wood-cutter’s hut half built under a 
cave. The man is preparing his breakfast ; but after one glance of 
startled surprise at so strange a visitant, he lifts up the maiden in 
his strong arms, and lays her tenderly down upon a couch ; he 
gives her hot tea and black bread, the best he has, and dresses 
her wounds with soothing unguents and the leaves of certain plants ; 


240 


TANGLED PA THS. 


then bidding her seek repose, in grave, gentle words, he takes up 
his axe and goes forth to his daily labor. How plainly she sees him 
now, with his long, gray beard, the weary, resigned expression of his 
eyes, the deep lines plowed by care upon his visage ! She learns 
that she is in Siberia, and her entertainer a Polish priest, exiled for 
his faith, sentenced to perpetual banishment, a Confessor who suffers 
willingly, and daily hopes for the crowning honor of martyrdom. All 
his kindness and patience passes before her, his hospitality, his gen- 
erosity in dividing his black bread, tea, and broth with her, and giv- 
ing up his hut to her while he fashioned another and ruder one for 
his abode ; and how, little by little, he taught her the truths of 
Christianity as held by the Catholic Church, baptized her and 
directed her to the source of all consolation. Then came a dark 
day — how plainly she sees it all — when Russian soldiers tear her 
from her benefactor and convey her to Moscow, to the agent of a 
lady of high rank who had commissioned him to procure her, if 
possible, a Tartar peasant woman for a nurse. Struck by her 
comeliness and modesty, as well as the picturesque dress she wore, 
he presents her to his employer, a haughty, beautiful woman, 
now past her first youth, whose aspect is without a single trace of 
gentle womanliness ; whose voice indicated a stern, implacable tem- 
per, and who, after some sharp questioning, engages her to take the 
entire charge of a young infant, her nephew, for whose health and 
safety she will be held strictly accountable. 

“ Remain here and continue to wear your peasant costume,” said 
the lady, the Princess Dimitri-Douskoi. Ah, how grateful she feels 
for this, not knowing that it is one of the humors of the great to 
have a few peasant attendants in the picturesque, quaint dress of 
their Province, among the liveried attendants of their superb estab- 
lishments ; it is a link between her and her early home on the 
Steppes which she would never see again, a reminder of the vow 
she had made to spend her life in penitence for the sin of her 
youth. How she trembles when they lead her away to the nursery, 
fearing the child will not take kindly to her, and how he stares 
out of his great, black eyes at her ; then, ha ! ha ! he crows and 
holds out his arms, and nestles upon her bosom ! Ah, the wild de- 
lirium of fever ! how it brings back the past ; and with what capri- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


24I 


cious shadows — like uncertain and discordant interludes — it veils at 
times the phantasmagoria that it conjures up. Fatiana drops once 
more into a temporary lethargy that is like death, without its free- 
dom ; her breast is still, and her eyes stare blankly, the crucifix 
clasped close, until the figure of the dead Christ seems buried in her 
flesh. Minutes and minutes pass ; a half hour is gone ! Is she dead ? 
A start and a sudden shriek tell us no ; she feels the bitter- blows of 
the merciless knout on the soles of her feet — the vision conies back 
to her so real — the punishment ordered by her mistress, the Prin- 
cess Dimitri-Dousko'i, because she would not attend the services and 
receive the Sacraments of the Schismatic Greek Church. Not once 
or twice, but several times, does she undergo this severe punish- 
ment, the haughty Princess, then in high favor at the Imperial 
Court, and full of zeal for her faith, hoping by this method to make 
her abjure the Catholic religion and embrace the errors of the one 
which she professes. She feels it all again as if it were real, and shivers 
and shrinks and sobs as each blow falls. And then at last it is over, 
a smile settles on her wrinkled, pallid visage, for her nurseling, the 
young Count Andrea, then a fine lad of fifteen, is weeping over her 
bleeding feet and covering her hands with kisses as he kneels by 
her ; then he leaves her to fly to his aunt, the Princess, in such a 
storm of passion, and terrifies her so by his dreadful threats of self- 
destruction if ever knout or lash be laid upon his nurse again, that 
she faints. He waits until she recovers, and declares he will shoot 
himself there, then, before her very eyes, if she does not promise 
what he requires ; she promises with white, trembling lips, and 
keeps her word. Then rushing off — how well she remembered it ! 
— he, at the risk of his life and fortune, brings a Catholic priest to 
her bedside at midnight, who administers the Sacraments to her and 
whispers consolation. How the boy heard of him — for he lived in 
great obscurity, and under constant surveillance — he would never 
tell. It was this same boy who built this hut for her, and brought 
the skins of the wild animals that he had killed in the chase thither, 
to make it comfortable ! Ah ! twenty-five — thirty years ! and where 
was he, that fiery, wicked Andrea, whose heart was veined' with a 
despotic tenderness for the few creatures whom he loved ? Then 
the shadows of delirium again gathered darkly ; the fever had nearly 
1 1 


242 


TANGLED PA THS. 


burnt itself out, and the exhausted faculties sunk into slumber, from 
which a heavy pounding upon her door aroused her ; she heard a 
clamor of voices, and shouting ; she is not dreaming now, but she 
could neither move nor cry out, and presently the door is pried off 
its hinges and falls with a crash, while the men — who had expected 
to find her gone or dead — tumble back upon each other as the light 
of their lanterns streams in and reveals her propped on her pillows 
with face as white as that of a corpse, her eyes gleaming like coals, 
fixed upon them. She beckoned, and one braver than the rest, or 
because he feared her malediction, goes in. 

“ Brandy,” she whispered, pointing to a shelf. The man poured 
out a small quantity and held it to her lips. She swallowed it with 
difficulty, but it revived her. 

“ Fire,” she said, more distinctly. The fire was replenished 
rapidly ; they were anxious to get away from the presence of so 
eerie a being ; it was dark, and snowing thickly, and she might 
work them ill. The stimulant she had swallowed gave her strength, 
and she spoke out : 

“ I want Count Dimitri ; where is he ? ” she asked, in clear, dis- 
tinct tones. 

“ He and his friends went to Moscow this morning ; there’s a 
great fete or something going on at the Kremlin,” answered the 
frightened Feodor. 

“ When will he be back ? ” 

“ To-morrow ! ” 

“ To-morrow ! ” she cried, with such a ring of agony in her voice 
that the rough men who heard it cowered and shrunk back. 

“Take another sup of brandy !” in desperate fright, said Feodor, 
offering it. 

“ Yes, anything to give me life until he comes. He’s my child ; 
I nursed him ; I nursed his father ; it is natural that I should want 
to see him before I die ; he’s the only being I love upon earth — 
that is, if others that I knew are dead. They seem to come 
to me sometimes,” she mumbled. The men and Feodor, fright- 
ened almost out of their senses, thought she was muttering in- 
cantations. 

“ I heard the steward say they’d be back to-night ; tell her,” said 


TANGLED PA THS. 


243 

one of the peasants, “ there’s to be a reindeer race to-morrow for 
them.” 

“So there is!” answered Feodor; but he had no need to tell 
her ; her ears, quickened by her near approach to the borderland 
of Eternity, heard every sound, every whisper. 

“Thanks, most sweet Jesu !” she murmured, as she slowly and 
with difficulty raised her crucifix, and pressed her lips upon the 
transfixed feet. “ Blessed and pure Mother of Perpetual Succor, 
help me in my extremity, and obtain for me the favor of seeing him 
once more ; for thou knowest ! oh, thou knowest ! It will matter 
little to Thee, O great God, a few breaths more or less to the creat- 
ure Thou didst fashion, and redeem by Thine own Son’s blood. 
Thou art just ; let justice be done in Thy Holy Name.” Then 
turning to the awe-struck men who had heard her words without 
understanding them, for her prayer was poured forth rapidly in the 
Tartar tongue, she promised them gold if they would be on the 
watch for the young Count and send him to her as soon as he came. 
They assured her that they would ; for was not her gold as good as 
any other, if she was a witch ? were they not poor, and had she 
ever been known to go back on her word? Yes, of course, they 
would not give the young Count time to get out of the troika before 
he should hear that she was sick and wanted him. 

“Tell him that, and nothing will keep him back,” she answered, 
while the wild terror of her countenance softened. 

“ But the money ; who — ” began one of the men, more cautious, 
but not less covetous than the others. 

“ Dogs ! ” she cried, angrily ; then checking herself, she said — 
“but no ! it is their nature ; how should they know better ? Here; 
give me the leather pouch out of the pewter cup yonder on the 
shelf; there are twenty gold roubles; divide them between you. 
If it were ten times more, it would be none too much for what I 
want done. Now go, and the curse of the dying be upon you if 
you fail me.” 

They had her gold, gifts from her two nurselings, father and son, 
that she had hoarded for years, the most precious of her small pos- 
sessions, which she had kissed and often wet with tears, but she gave 
them freely, as she would have given her very life, if she might only 


244 


TANGLED PA THS. 


see Dimitri and unburden her soul of the heavy, wearisome secret 
that it had borne day by day, until sometimes it nearly maddened 
her. Yes, they took her gold, and meant to do that which they had 
promised ; how would they dare do otherwise, with her curse hang- 
ing over them ? Then they put up her door as well as they could, 
and, free of the hut, rushed pell-mell away over the frozen snow, 
through the white, pelting storm, feeling as if they were pursued at 
every step. 

The Princess Dimitri-Douskoi sat waiting, angry and fuming that 
her messenger did not return, and imagining frightful things that 
made her shudder there amongst her soft, warm cushions to think 
of, when her door opened and Feodor stood, half hesitating, upon 
the threshold. 

“ I found her, your Highness ! ” 

“ Where ? In Moscow ? Shut the door, sirrah ! ” she exclaimed, 
angrily. “ Where have you been all this time ? ” 

Then he told her, with many interruptions from herself — so 
little patience had she with his rambling style of relating the story — 
of how the hut was fastened within, and how long it took them try- 
ing to make themselves heard, and how at last they were obliged 
to break the door down, and how near death they had found Fa- 
tiana, and that all she seemed to want upon eardi, was to see the 
young Count. 

She was silent, in deep thought for several minutes, with an 
anxious, grim look upon her face. At last she spoke. “ Go to 
’Lizbeth the scullery-maid — lose no time about it — and tell her to 
take one of the men and go to Fatiana’s hut to watch with her and 
wait upon her through the night; d’ye hear?” exclaimed the 
Princess, strangely excited, bringing her foot down with a sharp tap 
upon the floor. 

Feodor was off like an arrow out of a bow, glad that he had 
escaped without being forced to say a word about the message to 
the young Count, and the gold Fatiana had given him. Again she 
touched her bell, and her maid appeared. 

“ Send Isaac to me instantly,” she said, in brief, stern tones, 
which always warned those whom she addressed, that no time was 
to be lost in doing her behests. 


TANGLED FATHS. 


245 


“ Oh, I am glad, so glad, that Dimitri is away ! ” she exclaimed, 
walking up and down the length of her room, after the woman had 
gone out and closed the door. “ Oh, if she will only die before he 
gets back, all will be safe.” 

Old Isaac, the steward, lost no time in obeying her summons, and 
now stood before her, silently awaiting her orders. She dropped 
among the cushions of her chair, her breath short and quick. 

“ Fatiana is ill ; perhaps she is dying. I don’t know what ails 
her ; she may have a malignant fever, or small-pox, and she is ask- 
ing for Dimitri. He must not go near her; call the people together 
and command them, under pain of my displeasure and severe pun- 
ishment, to say no word of her to him when he comes back, for he 
would go straight away, reckless of all danger from disease, he loves 
her so.” 

“ Your Highness shall be obeyed,” replied the steward. 

She could read nothing except stolid indifference in his counte- 
nance ; if she could only have caught a glimpse of what was passing 
in the man’s heart, which was all in revolt against her cruelty to an 
old and faithful’ servant who lay dying, it would have gone hard with 
him ; but, like most other mortals, she saw only that which lay upon 
the surface, and it was well for him that it was so. 

“And — I had forgotten — send post-haste — take the best horses 
and the swiftest running sleds for Dr. Pestel ; let there be no loiter- 
ing. And remember : Count Dimitri must hear no hint about Fa- 
tiana’s being ill.” 

“ Your will is law, your Highness. I will do my best to have your 
orders obeyed.” 

And he did try honestly to do so ; and as far as the servants of 
the household, and others belonging to the offices, were concerned, 
what with threats and promises of reward he sealed every lip — for 
your Russian of the lower classes has but small interest beyond the 
narrow limits of his own affairs, his life is so serious a hand-to-hand 
struggle for him. “ It is fate,” said Feodor to himself after receiv- 
ing the order, which appeared to his narrow views to absolve him 
from the promise he had made to the lonely, dying woman — “ It is 
fate ; I meant to keep my word, but how can I now, without having 
my tongue slit and my back lashed ? ” He rattled the gold pieces 


246 


TANGLED PATHS. 


in his pocket, and felt very comfortable ; for who would ever know ? 
She would be dead before midnight ; and if she died before Count 
Dimitri came, there was small blame for him.” The other two 
neither reasoned nor cared, but drank kwas until they tumbled upon 
the floor in a drunken sleep. 

Dr. Pestel had come, administered an elixir to his patient, to be 
repeated every half hour, told ’Lizbeth — who took herself off the 
moment he went away, leaving the man to w^atch — that she had but 
few hours to live ; and promising to see her again as early as pos- 
sible the next morning, jumped into the covered sled that had been 
sent for him, piled wraps and rugs around himself, and was off, hop- 
ing to be at home in an hour’s time. But just as he reached the 
lodge gates, which had been kept open for him, in rushed the horses 
and troika of Count Dimitri, almost upsetting his smaller turnout. 

“ Halloa, there ! Who are you, friend or foe ? ” shouted Dimitri, 
as Ivan pulled up his horses, not knowing what mischief had been 
done. 

“ You came near having a friend less, Count ; it is Pestel,” said 
the doctor. 

“ I hope my aunt is not ill ?” inquired the boy, sobered to sud- 
den gravity by the thought. 

“ Oh, no, no ! It is only the old Tartar nurse. I think she is 
dying.” 

Dimitri felt as if a bolt of ice had suddenly gone through his 
heart ; for if she died, and he not there, how would he ever find 
out the mystery of his life ? Besides, he loved the faithful old 
nurse, and his ruddy cheeks grew white as he asked : “ Do you 
think I may get there in time ? ” 

“ It may be, Count ; I can not promise.” 

“ What, then, is your calling worth,” flamed out the boy, in a 
fury, “ if it can not prolong life ? It is charlatanism and hum- 
bug.” 

“ We have no power over death ; when his fiat goes forth we lay 
aside our drugs and go.” 

“ How can you tell ? Nobody knows ! I tell you, if I find that 
woman dead when I reach her, I’ll hold you answerable ! ” cried 
the boy, hotly. 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


247 


" Good-night, Count Dimitri,” was the only reply Dr. Pestel 
vouchsafed as he gave signal to his driver to move on. Count 
Dimitri little knew how much he was indebted to this casual meet- 
ing with the doctor, or he would have behaved quite differently; 
but the grave, well-bred adieu, in such contrast to his offensive 
language, spoken with quiet dignity, made him ashamed of his im- 
petuosity. 

“ Drive on, Ivan ; we are losing time. If you fellows will ex- 
cuse me,” he said to his companions, “ I’ll leave you before we get 
to the hall-door ; make yourselves at home, and call for whatever 
you want, please.” 

They had no idea — those gay yotfng fellows — why he should bother 
himself so because a miserable old serf was dying ; but they were 
too well-mannered to attempt to chaff or thwart him about it, 
seeing that he was troubled, and assured him that they would 
take care of themselves, and that he might leave them just as soon 
as he was ready. 

“ Thanks, and au revoir ,” he answered, as, a few moments later, 
he called to Ivan to halt, sprang out of the troika and disappeared 
in the darkness. 

u He says that his Tartar blood flies to his head sometimes,” 
said one of the young fellows to his companions. 

“ It is in the ascendency, to-night, for his mood .has been atro- 
cious. Did you notice what a frenzy possessed him to get on faster, 
faster, faster, until Ivan swore his horses would drop dead if further 
goaded ? But he gets in this way sometimes at college.” 

In fact, the fine animals were literally sheathed in ice, and by 
the time the troika drew up under the port cocker e they were pant- 
ing and nearly spent with the wild speed of their journey ; icicles 
dangled from their flowing manes and tails, the vapor from their 
bodies had congealed into crystals as quickly as thrown off by their 
violent exertions, and frozen froth hung from their lips, giving them 
altogether the appearance of phantom horses as seen by poets in 
their dreams, while their driver, old Ivan, his thick, grizzly beard 
literally bristling with shining points and flakes of ice, looked like a 
grotesque bronze girandole when the light from the entrance lamps fell 
upon him. No one noticed when the young men ran into the dimly- 


24B 


TANGLED PATHS. 


lighted ante-room that Dimitri was not with them ; the servants who 
were up had been indulging in kwas — perhaps something stronger — 
and were half asleep ; they were told that they would find refresh- 
ment in their apartments, and they lost no time in getting to them ; 
lights were extinguished, and the drowsy attendants, sure that the 
young Count was safe from hearing ill news for the night, at least, 
went to bed with easy consciences. 

Something had come over Count Dimitri on the way from Mos- 
cow that afternoon, an indefinable prevision that dropped like a 
raven out of the twilight upon his hilarious spirits, chilling them with 
its gloom, and spurring him to such mad unrest that he could not en- 
dure waiting. There was no reason for it more than for his former 
moods, only he had never experienced any quite like this before. He 
had not been drinking to excess, for the boy disdained drunkenness 
and could never be tempted to it, and all the circumstances of the 
day had been pleasant, and highly gratifying to his self-love and 
vanity ; he had been courted, admired, and treated like a full-grown 
man by beautiful women, and looked upon with kindly notice by 
the Grand Duke and some of the high dignitaries of the Empire, 
who knew his family. Was it the rebound ? He could not 
tell, until his horses nearly upset Dr. Pestel’s sled at the lodge 
gate and he heard that his old Tartar nurse was dying. Was it 
an accident? * 

Through the blinding snow, swift over the frozen fields, Dimitri 
made his way toward Fatiana’s hut. There was no sound within, 
and by wide chinks of firelight he saw that the door was broken. 
He lifted it aside and stepped in. Some one, covered with skins 
and rugs, lay asleep on the floor, snoring and motionless. He saw 
in the shadow the low bed in the corner, and a form upon it. Was 
she dead ? A few rapid steps toward it, a piercing look through the 
gloom, and the faint wave of a pale hand that beckoned him gave 
him hope, then certainty, and in another moment he was kneeling 
beside his old nurse; he took her cold hand in his, bowed his 
face upon it, and burst into tears. Do you not see what a vein 
of tenderness there w T as in this boy’s nature, antagonistic to 
the fiercer qualities that pervaded it ? — another and a better dual 
life that had never had aught to develop or to nourish it except 


TANGLED PA THS. 


249 


the love of this woman, who had watched and guarded him from 
his infancy — the only love, the only friend his hungry heart had 
ever known. 

44 1 knew that our dear Lord would send thee, Dimitri, my son. 
My soul hungers for the Bread of Life and the holy anointing ere I 
go hence,” she said, in feeble accents. 

“Thou shalt be satisfied, mother; I will go for thy priest and 
bring him to thee, if — if thou wilt only live.” 

44 My days are numbered, Dimitri, my son, and as thou bringest 
comfort to me in the valley and shadow of death, so may the Lord 
God and His dear Son find thee out in thy worst need. Thou 
knowest where to find Father Vieski — the same thou hast been to 
before, and brought to me.” 

He arose to go, but she still held his hand, and drawing his face 
down to hers, whispered : “ It may be too late presently ; I will tell 
thee now, Dimitri ; when I am no more, thou wilt find what I 
promised thee under the middle plank of the floor, here, where my 
bed stands — here,” she added, pointing to the center of her bed. 
Then she kissed his forehead and blessed him again. Overcome 
with emotions of various kinds, Count Dimitri went out of the hut, 
stepping noiselessly, then rushed across a field in the rear of the 
plantation of firs that sheltered it, until he reached a mud hovel half 
buried under snow-drifts, belonging to one of the serfs — a mujik to 
whom he had been kind two or three times when he was in difficul- 
ties and about to be punished. He pounded upon the door until he 
routed the man up, put a rouble into his hand and ordered him to 
put his horse to his sled without a minute’s delay, to take him a short 
journey. Doubtful at first, because only half awake, but certain now 
that it was the young Count, there was no question about his being 
obeyed, and in a few minutes the shaggy, Ukraine pony was har- 
nessed up and trotted round, ready for his service ; the mujik got 
into his greasy sheepskin touloupe, covered his head and the back of 
his neck with a fur-lined cap, whose broad flaps reached to his waist, 
and they started, he did not know where, through the black, stormy 
night — nor did he care, so long as his young master was there to 
guide him. But the journey was not long — only a few versts away — 
and after two or three mishaps they reached a miserable hamlet on 


250 


TANGLED PA THS. 


the south side of the great St. Petersburg railroad and only a short 
distance from it. 

“To the trader Vieski’s,” said Dimitri. 

“I know,” replied the mujik ; “ there’s his lamp shining through 
his window ; he works day and night, polishing the rough gems? the 
traders bring him.” That is what the mujik thought about the light 
shining through the window of the lonely dwelling, and what many 
others thought also ; but that lamp was for a guide to such as needed 
him, by which they would be able to find him without troubling 
others with questions. Dimitri knocked — a loud, quick knock — 
and a venerable man, whose long, white beard covered his breast, 
opened the door and inquired what his visitors required at that 
hour. 

“ One is dying — the old Tartar woman at the Princess Dimitri- 
Douskofs — and she has sent for you,” said Dimitri, speaking low. 

“ And you?” No need to ask about Fatiana ; he knew her and 
her history. 

“ I am Count Dimitri,” answered the boy, more to show his right 
than to overawe by his rank. 

“ Ah ! ” said the venerable man, “ enter. I will be ready to go 
with you instantly.” 

“ Hasten, sir, if you please ! ” exclaimed the impatient boy, jeal- 
ous of every moment’s delay, almost counting the chances of life 
against time. 

The aged man’s preparations were soon made ; to place a small 
leather-bound case containing the Host and the Sacred Oils in his 
breast-pocket, and get on his heavy wraps, all fleecedined and im- 
pervious to the weather, required but small delay, and in less time 
than it takes to tell it, they were off again. This man for 
whom the young Count had come in such hot haste was a priest of 
the Latin Church — a Pole, who had served a term of years in the 
mines of Siberia, and who had been only released to live under the 
surveillance of the military police of Russia in this miserable ham- 
let — the exercise of his’priestly functions prohibited by the severest 
penalties — where he earned a scanty subsistence by polishing the 
rough gems that were brought to him by passing traders, who re- 
ceived them, and paid him for his labor on their return. He also 


TANGLED PA THS. 


251 


practiced physic among the miserable people by whom he was sur- 
rounded, and, when opportunity offered, administered secretly the 
consolations of religion to those of his holy faith, who otherwise 
would have died without them, placing his own liberty and life in 
peril, if discovered, whenever he did it. 

Speeding over the frozen snow-covered plains by the pale auroral 
gleam that shone through the broken, drifting clouds, commanded to 
urge his horse to its wildest speed, the niujik wondered if his young 
lord were not possessed, and whether this were not some plot that 
would bring him under the lash ; he had never yet been flogged, and 
strange to say, he dreaded the degradation of it more than the hurt ; 
but there was nothing to be done but to go on to the end. They 
arrived at last at his poor hut, and he was sure that there he 
would be left in peace and his services dispensed with for the night ; 
but no ; he was not allowed to stop ; the young Count bade him 
drive across the fields to the fir plantation and wait there to convey 
the person they had brought whence he came. “ And take this to 
save thee from freezing/’ said Dimitri, tossing him a pocket-flask of 
brandy. Then the two men, the elder one leaning on the arm of 
the younger, went to Fatiana’s hut under the firs. She was alive, 
but sinking slowly ; her attendant was in a profound sleep, and they 
took care to enter noiselessly. The priest, seeing that no time was 
to be lost, approached her bed and whispered the benediction, heard 
her low-murmured confession, then quickly, fearing interruption, ad- 
ministered to her the Holy Viaticum and Extreme Unction, she 
responding with her fast-failing breath to the rapidly-uttered prayers. 
He then gave her the last absolution, and departed as noiselessly as 
he had come. Dimitri had thrown himself upon a bench to watch 
the sleeper upon the floor while the last rite was going on, but he 
did not stir ; the priest, having concluded the sacramental rites, de- 
parted noiselessly, leaving blessings ; and the boy got up and knelt 
by the dying woman, his face almost as pale and solemn as her own. 
The wrinkled, care-worn visage was tranquil now ; the restless, 
questioning, anxious eyes were calm ; the curtain was . slowly falling 
over their weary, weary sight ; courage and hope filled the heart 
whose spent pulses were ebbing, fainting like the last whispers of a 
storm that is over. Life had been a long, rough passage to her, 


252 


TANGLED PA THS . 


a bitter passion and pain all through ; but now, rest was at hand. 
The stillness and whiteness of death were upon her features, but she 
knew her nurseling ; she laid her hand upon his head for an instant, 
turned her eyes with a last fond look upon him, then clasping her 
crucifix closer, closer to her breast, her soul passed into Life. 

Dimitri had never seen death before, and he trembled ; it was 
full of inconceivable mystery and awesomeness to him, and he al- 
most fainted when, drawing the coverlid over her hands to hide the 
crucifix, his hand came in contact with the frozen coldness of her 
face. The silence of the form appalled him ; what made it so stony 
and still ? whither had gone that which had always, ever since he 
could recollect, pulsed with tenderness for him when all else were 
harsh and cold ? He gulped back his sobs, threw a towel over the 
pale face, kicked up the man asleep upon the floor, and after 
threatening him with punishment for leaving the woman to die there 
alone, he hastened to the chateau, for it was now almost day-dawn, 
and, getting in through some of the back offices by ways that he knew 
of, he threw himself upon his bed as soon as he reached his apart- 
ments, where, exhausted by emotion and fatigue, he fell very soon 
into a profound slumber. 

Let the dying woman’s blessing and his good work in bringing 
help to her in her extremity be remembered, for Almighty God never 
allows such things to fall fruitless to the ground. 


CHAPTER II. 


“ Dead ! Fatiana dead ! ” gasped the Princess Dimitri-Douskoi, 
her face growing suddenly white and pinched, her hands dropping 
limp and cold on each side of her. 

“Yes, your Highness,” answered old Michel, the huntsman, who, 
urged by what he considered an emergency, and his privileges as a 
faithful and confidential servant, had ventured that morning to ap- 
proach his mistress at a much earlier hour than she was in the habit 
of admitting persons on business. But before he had time to more 
than begin the relation of his perplexities, she had cut him short — in 
her terse, peremptory way — to inquire if there were any news of 
Fatiana, and he had blurted out what he knew. She was dead. Some- 
how, her dreams had been full of the old Tartar nurse all night ; fit- 
ful dreams, that were not sedative in their effects, but had filled her 
mind with vague uneasiness and retrospective thoughts which over 
and over again brought before her scenes and events of the past that 
she would fain have forgotten ; and now came the news that she was 
dead. She had not expected this, although she had issued such im- 
perative orders for Fatiana’ s illness to be concealed from the young 
Count when he got back, knowing that if he heard but a hint of it, he 
would go to her without loss of time ; and fearing that she, unnerved 
by suffering and the dread of possible death, might reveal things to 
him which it were desirable he should be kept in ignorance of. 

Her maid had brought in her tea at the usual hour that morning, 
but, when questioned, had thought it more discreet to pretend igno- 
rance of what had happened, knowing that news of the event 
would throw the Princess into a state of excitement which would re- 
bound unpleasantly on herself. Feodor, when summoned, also plead- 
ed ignorance, and was dismissed with a sharp reprimand for not 
being better informed ; but now old Michel — under fear of nothing 
except that the Samoyeds, who were growling and swearing that the 

( 253 ) 


254 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


heat would kill their animals, although the mercury was full forty 
degrees below zero, would bolt, and put an end to the reindeer race 
— spoke out, for what was the decrepid Tartar witch to him, com- 
pared with the fine sport which at much trouble and pains he had 
provided for the noble youngsters, Count Dimitri and his guests ? 

He was not prepared, however, for the effect produced by his words 
upon his mistress ; her quick start, her sudden pallor, the rigidity of 
her figure sitting bolt upright in her great cushioned arm-chair, the 
white gleam of her eyes ; and, drawing back a step, he straightened 
himself up and said apologetically : 

“ I’m sorry, your Highness, to be the bearer of ill tidings, but 
there’s them Samoyeds that naught could persuade to wait a day 
longer, because they say it’s too warm here for their beasts ; and if 
they go away, your Highness, the sport’s over. I know the lad wilt 
be cut up about his old nurse dying, but where’s the use? It won’t 
bring her back to life to give up the race.” 

He called the young Count “lad,” — he would never be anything 
more to that stout, faithful old heart, not if he lived to have gray 
hairs, and have his breast covered with decorations, and make his 
name glorious, for had he not often cradled him, an infant, in his 
arms, and when older, borne him time and again upon his stalwart 
shoulders when stalking through the forest for game ? The daring 
boy was the apple of his eye ; he loved him, and took pride in his 
manly beauty and courage, and even thought that Dimitri’s unrea- 
sonable rages were highly becoming to him. 

“ Have you seen Count Dimitri ? ” — she never called him lad, nor 
forgot his rank. “ Has he heard ? ” she asked, in a low, hoarse voice. 

“ No, your Highness ; he’s fast asleep yet,” replied Michel, in an 
aggrieved tone, glancing toward the clock over the mantel. 

“ Ah — ah !” she ejaculated, with sudden relief. “ The young re- 
quire much sleep.” 

“ But, your Highness, he’ll lose the sport — those fellows growl and 
grumble about the heat, when it’s as much as a body’s ears are worth 
to go out uncovered ; and if he wants to keep them he ought to see 
them himself, or — ” 

Michel expressed that they would be off by putting his hands to- 
gether, then spreading them out with every finger apart. 


TANGLED PATHS. 255 

“ Count Dimitri should not neglect his guests. Are they also 
asleep ? ” 

“No, your Highness; they’ve been up an hour, and had their 
breakfast, and are now out in the stables betting on the Samoyeds’ 
beasts ; they be so full of the race that they made me come, your 
Highness, to — to — find out — ” 

“ I understand,” she answered, briefly, then fell into thought ; 
while Michel waited, watching her, and wondering what she could 
be turning over within that old bowed head of hers. 

The Princess Dimitri-Douskoi knew very well that it would not 
do to go too far with the boy ; she must be very prudent lest he 
should suspect that she had some hand in keeping him away from 
the death-bed of the woman who had been a mother to him, and 
who, she knew, held the secrets of his life; she, therefore, thought 
it would be advisable to show respect to her in his name. She look- 
ed up, and spoke. 

“ Give my compliments to the Count’s friends, Michel, and ask 
them to be kind enough to enjoy themselves without him to-day ; he 
will be greatly distressed by the death of his old nurse, and will wish 
to show some respect to her memory. Tell Isaac to see to their 
hampers, and get them off as quickly as possible.” 

“ And, your Highness, you’ll make it all right with the young 
Count?” said Michel, his gray bushy eyebrows lowering over his 
eyes, while his voice dropped into something very like a growl of 
dissatisfaction, for what pleasure would it be to him without Dimitri ? 

“ Have no fear. Go now,” she answered, curtly ; and he disap- 
peared. 

Make it all right with the young Count ! Would that she might 
be able to make it all right with him for herself! The fearless heart 
of the woman quailed at the bare thought of the possibility of hints 
that he might have heard ! What might he not already have whee- 
dled out of the dead woman in the days past? what wild imagina- 
tions might not have grown up, full-fledged, in his brooding silences ? 

“Dead ! dead !” she whispered, clutching the arms of her chair 
until the sinews of her hands stood out — and the swollen veins, like 
great purple worms, seemed to writhe over them. “ And her secret 
dead with her! Blessed Lady of Kazan ! how I thank thee ! But 


TANGLED PA THS. 


256 

the boy, how he will fret, and what a wild fury he’ll be in when he 
hears she is dead, and that he was not with her ! He’ll fancy she 
was neglected ! he’ll never stop to think how suddenly death some- 
times comes.” 

She touched her bell, and Feodor, with blanched face, not know- 
ing what was in store for him, appeared, his feet drawn together, his 
hands folded before him as if he were a model posturing for an 
artist. But he might have spared himself all uneasiness ; for, with- 
out raising her eyes except to glance toward him, the Princess di- 
rected him to go and wait in Count Dimitri’s apartments until he 
awoke, and tell him that she wished particularly to see him as soon 
as he was dressed, then dismissed him. Her maid now came in 
with her breakfast ; but a goblet of steaming tea, with a thin slice 
of Sicilian lemon floating in it, was the only refreshment that she 
took ; the small, tempting dishes to which she usually did ample 
justice were sent away untasted ; and she girded up her courage for 
what was impending, the shadow of which gave her a sensation of 
such unrest that even with her strong will it was with difficulty she 
could remain seated. 

And when at last Dimitri awoke, and all that had passed the night 
before came little by little to him as his slumbering faculties aroused 
themselves, and he remembered that the key of the mystery that he 
had so long sought to penetrate was now actually in his possession, 
he felt there was the greatest necessity for being cautious and pru- 
dent to avert suspicion ; the slightest indiscretion, and he knew that 
his every movement would be watched, and his hopes be probably 
frustrated at the very instant they seemed to be on the verge of ful- 
fillment. Then came the recollection of the poor old dead face in 
its peaceful calm, lying over yonder in the hut, clothed with the 
grandeur of the mystery of death ; he thought of the tender love 
that had survived all, and been patient and strong for him and with 
him to the very last, and he buried his face in his pillow and wept 
bitterly. When the passion of his grief subsided it left his heart 
cool and his brain clear. A crisis in his life had come ; his boyhood 
was behind him, his face turned to the future ; they might not know 
or observe it, but Dimitri was no longer a boy, and would meet 
whatever befell him as a man — and that he would show them. He 


TANGLED PA THS . 


257 


dressed himself, unlocked his door and went into the ante-room, 
where he found Feodor waiting, who, having delivered his message, 
disappeared quickly, dreading to be questioned. 

Dimitri walked over to the small table, where his tea was steam- 
ing over a spirit-lamp, its aroma diffusing a vapory odor such as we 
who get our teas deteriorated by being brought from across the 
seas are strangers to. Brought overland from the “ Flowery King- 
dom,” into Russia, that which gives life to the plant called tea re- 
mains unimpaired in the health-giving properties which the chemis- 
try of nature imparts, but which the subtle and permeating salts of 
the ocean in a measure destroys. Dimitri quaffed a goblet of the 
hot, fragrant liquid, and felt refreshed and strengthened in his re- 
solves, one of which was that he would control his temper in the 
approaching interview with his aunt if he should be obliged to bite 
through his tongue, that temper of his which had never known 
curb or rein, which people were wont to say “he got from his 
father, who got his from the devil ; ” and as most evil passions are 
due to that source, it is probable they were not far wrong. He 
wondered what his aunt wanted with him, then suddenly bethought 
himself of his friends, the Samoyeds, and the reindeer race. What 
should he do ? He wondered if they would not let him off, and 
enjoy the sport without him ; for how could he go, and she lying 
there dead in the hut — and that , his treasure, in the earth under her 
bed ? Some rogue, no longer in fear of her, might steal it while 
searching for the gold of which it was said she had an abundance 
secreted in holes and corners. This thought quickened his move- 
ments, and hastening through the long corridors to the apartments 
of the Princess, he was instantly admitted. Having saluted her, 
he knelt a moment for her blessing ; then drawing a chair quite 
near her, waited to hear what she might have to say. The 
haughty old woman fixed her eyes upon his countenance, scanning 
every line, as if she sought to penetrate what lay beneath ; but 
there was no sign there that indicated knowledge of any unusual 
event or emotion. At last she spoke, her voice low, her words 
gentle. 

“ I have sad news for thee, Dimitri, my son. Fatiana died sud- 
denly last night.” Then she paused, expectant of a wild outbreak. 


258 


TANGLED DA TBS. 


“ I know it, madame my aunt,” he replied, so calmly that she 
was not only astonished, but relieved, and imagined that some ot 
the attendants had informed him of the event on his way to her 
apartments. 

“ And,” she continued, “ knowing that thou wouldst naturally be 
grieved, I directed Michel to take thy friends out in the Samoyed 
sleds, and they are gone.” 

“ Thanks, madame my aunt ; I have no heart for reindeer races 
when my best friend lies dead. I am glad they are off.” 

“ It would have been a great consolation to the faithful old serv- 
ant to have seen thee, Dimitri,” she continued — without noticing, 
seemingly, that he spoke of her as “ his best friend,” although it 
galled her and sent a flicker of white light to her eyes — “ but thou 
wert absent, and en peu d'heure Dien labeure. I sent post-haste 
for Dr. Pestel, who would, I knew, do all that human skill could do 
to save her ; but that is the news they brought me this morning : 
‘ She is dead.’ ” 

“ I was with her,” he answered, in low, concentrated tones. 

“With her! Impossible!” screamed the Princess, suddenly 
white with dread and rage. 

“ My troika ran into Pestel’ s last night, as mine was turning into 
the gate, and his coming out. He told me, and I went straight to 
her.” 

“ And what did she tell thee ? What did she say to thee, 
Dimitri ? Her mind, they say, was wandering ; she saw things ! ” 
exclaimed the Princess, in excited tones. 

“ I saw her a very short time. What should she have to tell me ? 
She was dying then, and wanted a priest of her faith. I got a sled 
and brought him.” 

u Oh, mad, foolish boy ! ” she cried ; then, checking herself, but 
almost breathless, she asked, “ From a distance, Dimitri ? Wert 
thou long away ? ” 

“ Some versts away, perhaps ; I did not notice. My business 
was not to measure distances, but to fetch the priest she wanted, 
and I would have tried to bring him if he had been at the North 
Pole.” 

“ And then ? ” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


259 


“ And then, having brought him, I left him with her ; and when 
he finished the rites for the dying I went to her bedside, and she 
blessed me, and died.” 

“ And told thee no wild, improbable stories of the past ? ” 

“ Nothing,” answered the boy, looking full into her eager, expec- 
tant eyes. 

“ Ah-h-h ! ” breathed the old Princess, in a deep sigh of relief. 
“ Poor Fatiana ! Faithful from first to last ! Always faithful ! But, 
Dimitri, my son, thou wert imprudent to fetch a Latin priest ; how 
didst thou know where to find him ? ” 

She was determined to find out. if possible ; for how could she 
be sure that Fatiana did not confide certain family secrets to him, to 
be hereafter imparted to Dimitri ; what would be more natural than 
for her to have done so ; and if she could only track him, she was 
powerful enough to have him sent, on her complaint, to the mines 
of Siberia. 

“She told me long ago, and I promised her then, that if she were 
ill or dying, no matter when or where, I would bring him to her if I 
knew it in time. And I would have fetched him if the Emperor 
himself had forbidden it under pain of death ! What right have men 
to bring human laws between God and the souls of His creatures ? ” 
he burst out; then suddenly restrained himself, for he had much at 
stake, and must be prudent. 

“ We will not discuss the question,” she replied, veiling the white 
scintillation of her eyes by looking down, as she calmly answered 
him, “ as no necessity will hereafter arise to hold intercourse with a 
false priest, an enemy to our faith.” 

She suspected, but was not certain, that she knew full well who 
this priest was, and that his residence was in a poor outlying hamlet 
belonging to the Dimitri-Douskoi estate, but she could not bring 
him to punishment for exercising his functions under an interdict, 
until she had some certain information and more conclusive proof 
than mere suspicions. 

“ No,” answered the young Count, with assumed carelessness, 
“ he is nothing to me now, or his religion ; and I never expect to 
see his face again. But there’s one favor I beg of your Highness — 
it is the last I will ever trouble you with on her account.” 


260 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“Name thy request, Dimitri.” 

“ Give me permission to bury her on the spot where she died. 
The ground outside is too deeply frozen to dig a grave, and if she 
be left there until a thaw, the wolves will get in and tear her body 
to pieces. I know if she could speak she would ask to be covered 
up from the eyes of men in her last refuge, the grave, as soon 
as may be. No one will ever use the hut of the ‘old witch,’ 
as they call her ; it will fall to ruin ; let, then, its ruins be her 
tomb.” 

He took her hand and smoothed it between both of his own. 
The little caress, and the eager, wistful look in the boy’s face, 
touched her ; and perhaps some expiatory sentiment inclined her to 
let him have his will in this matter. 

“ Dost thou wish this very much, Dimitri ? It is a singular idea, 
but as she can not be laid in consecrated ground it were perhaps as 
well for the honor of our house that an old and faithful servant 
should have decent burial on our own lands. Yes ; I see no reason- 
able objection to it. You say truly, no one would ever consent to 
live in the hut; and your father built it for her, which would pre- 
vent my ordering its destruction. It is hers ; let it cover her in 
death, as in life.” 

“ Thanks, madame,” replied Dimitri, kissing the withered hand 
that he held. “ One more favor, then I have done. I will watch 
there to-day, and do not wish to be disturbed. Not one of the 
superstitious serfs on the estate would remain there long enough to 
keep the wolves out if they came prowling from the forest on the 
trail of Death. I have no dread, though death is an awful thing, 
and this is the first time I have seen it face to face ; and could she 
speak, it is what she would best like.” 

“But thy young friends, Dimitri?” 

“ I will see them when they get back ; they are fine fellows, and 
will excuse me until to-morrow.” 

“ Very well. Order what thou wilt from the village for the burial, 
and then, Dimitri, my son, when thou hast buried her out of sight, 
let thy heart turn more kindly toward thine own flesh and blood. A 
letter came from thy mother to-day.” 

“ From the pale nun at Troitza?” he asked. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


26l 


“ From thy mother, 1 said \ and she desires to see thee \ it is 
feared she can not live long.” 

“ My mother — ill — dying ! ” repeated the boy, slowly, as if hoping 
that his inner heart would respond to words which by the laws of 
nature should have thrilled it ; but he listened in vain ; they went 
no deeper than his lips ; they touched no chord of his being, nor 
even quickened a single pulse. 

Was he, then, without natural affection ? he asked himself. Were 
the most sacred instincts dead within him ? A troubled expression 
stole over his countenance, and a deeper gloom shadowed his eyes. 
His aunt placed her own construction upon the changed expression 
of his face. 

“ Thou must consider her saintly life, Dimitri, and be comforted,” 
she said. “ Sorrows like this must come, but she will leave thee a 
heritage of virtues such as have already made more glorious our il- 
lustrious name.” 

This haughty old Princess evidently thought Heaven itself honored 
by the service of one of her race. Dimitri bowed over her hand, 
pressed his lips lightly upon it, then turned to go away, feeling con- 
science-stricken and remorseful at his own utter want of filial de- 
votion. Could it be that her having so long separated her life from 
his by devoting herself to religion in the cloisters of Troitza was the 
cause of it ; that Heaven had absorbed all her natural affections, 
and jealousy obliterated his ? The problem was too deep an one 
for Dimitri to solve. His aunt recalled him as he was going away. 

“ One moment, Dimitri, my son ; should any papers or writing 
be found in the hut down yonder, bring them to me without reading 
them.” 

“ Is it likely that Fatiana should have left papers or writing ? 
But let Isaac come with me, and search,” he answered, feeling per- 
fectly sure that the old steward’s courage would be strained to the 
uttermost in looking under the bed where the corpse lay, without 
disturbing it to search under the floor. 

c< If she has left any such scraps lying about, thou shalt have 
them, madame my aunt,” he replied, as he left her presence. “All, 
all, except my legacy — that is mine y mine , and no power shall tear it 
from me ! ” was his secret determination. 


262 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Really,’' said the Princess Dimitri-Douskoi, well satisfied with 
the interview, which she had expected to be so different, “ my 
nephew is growing rational. That old creature kept his mind in a 
fever by mysterious hints from time to time, and now that she is 
gone there’ll be an end of it ; and Dimitri, no longer troubled by 
wild fancies, will settle himself to the business of his life, and be- 
come an honor to his name. He’s a fine, brave boy ; a noble, 
honorable spirit ; and he will yet live to wipe off the only stain upon 
the escutcheon of our house.” 

And so she exulted — never dreaming, in this first hour of security 
that she had enjoyed for years, that all she most dreaded was near its 
accomplishment. 


CHAPTER III. 


“ Isaac will go with thee to assist thy search. Persons of the 
lower classes know each other’s habits, and he will ferret out places 
of concealment thou wouldst never dream of. Besides, a corpse is 
poor company” — the Princess called him back to say, while a per- 
ceptible shudder passed over her from head to foot. 

Dimitri was not so simple but that he was aware old Isaac would 
accompany him on his sad errand for the purpose of acting the spy 
upon his movements, so that if anything should be found it would 
be sure to be delivered into his aunt’s hands, or so reported that 
she would demand it. But he, knowing what he did, readily acqui- 
esced ; for although Isaac had, in a super-eminent degree, the fac- 
ulty of bringing hidden things to light, and had always been em- 
ployed by his mistress for such service when occasion required, the 
young Count felt not the slightest concern at having him there to- 
day, sure that he would discover nothing of importance, unless — 
and suppose he should ? — remove the boards of the floor to search 
under them. Dimitri’s heart gave a great bound that nearly choked 
him ; then rose, after, the savage thought : “ If he does, and finds 
my treasure, 1 will spring upon him and kill him.” 

The boy’s soul was as it were dormant within him; only the in- 
stincts of nature, some of them noble and tender, others ferocious 
and revengeful, governed his life at present ; and under the influ- 
ence of the last, he would be as likely as not, if fully roused, to 
commit some crime now, or in the future, unless these wild-beast 
instincts should be beaten down by the discipline of misfortune and 
adversity, and the avenues to his higher and nobler life be left open 
to the inflowing of supernatural things, which alone would have the 
power to bring to fruition the germs of repentance. 

When Dimitri and old Isaac reached the hut, they found the body 
of the dead woman laid decently upon a bier, with long wax can- 

(263) 


264 


TANGLED PA THS. 


dies alight at the head and feet. A sheet of fine linen covered it 
entirely ; and when the boy, moved by an inexpressible longing to 
gaze once more upon the still, white face beneath, lifted a corner 
of it, he saw that a strange peace and almost youth had settled upon 
it, and also that her crucifix, the symbol of the faith for which she 
had suffered, was held close to her breast in her clasped hands. He 
wondered who could have done all this ? — he was sure that no serv- 
ant of the household, no dependent on the estate would have so 
cared for the remains of one whom, in their superstitious minds, 
they firmly believed was a witch, and he suspected that the Latin 
priest, Vieski, had been there again ; which was the fact. He had 
returned as the undertaker’s assistant, and brought his niece, who 
kept house for him, to perform the last earthly offices for the dead, 
he having been informed by Fatiana, before she died, where she 
kept everything in readiness for her burial. The undertaker was 
himself — but not openly — a Catholic Christian, by which all that 
was necessary to be done was rendered easy. 

Dimitri having looked his fill, drew from beneath his touloupe a 
beautiful palm-branch, which he had cut from one of the vases on 
his way out, and laid it reverently beside the peaceful sleeper. 
Then he told Isaac to begin the task for which he had come, which 
he proceeded to do in the most systematic manner, leaving nothing 
unturned ; everything was inspected, every cranny explored ; every 
bit of crockery, every box and kettle was searched ; even the bed- 
coverings were taken off singly and examined, and the mattress 
ripped, then prodded with a knife through and through. The young 
Count stood watching every movement, even directing him here or 
there, to this or to that thing, as likely to be a safe place of con- 
cealment, his heart swelling with indignant wrath, which a jealous 
and sore dread kept in check the while. But nothing was found 
except some rusty pieces of silver and copper money which Fati- 
ana had hoarded, so many long years before, that she herself had 
quite forgotten their existence ; and Dimitri, although he noted the 
old steward’s greedy look, gathered them together and dropped 
them into his chamois-skin purse, determined to give them to the 
priest, Vieski, to use as he saw fit. “ This,” he thought, “ is what 
she would wish, could she only make it known.” 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


265 


Isaac made his report to his mistress, who was at length con- 
vinced that Fatiana had died with her secret unspoken, unwritten ; 
u unless that priest — ah ! why did Dimitri withhold his name and 
residence ? unless he had been the recipient of it in her dying con- 
fession ; but she would see to it ; she would have him hunted — aye, 
tortured when found ; she would silence him.” These were the 
musings of the fierce old woman’s despotic mind, which tore and 
tormented her far more than anything she had experienced in Fa- 
tiana’s lifetime ; for Fatiana’s word was to be trusted, and she had 
never broken a promise ; but now — ? 

Dimitri saw his young friends just for a moment when they re- 
turned that evening full of wild exhilaration from their reindeer 
race, and excused his absence until the morrow. Hurrying back to 
the hut, he found the coffin arrived, and the body already deposited 
therein, and he saw a dark cowled form kneeling in the shadow, who 
arose when he entered, sprinkled it with holy water, made the Sign 
of the Cross above the silent sleeper, and passed out into the dark- 
ness without speaking. The men who had come with their picks 
and shovels to dig the grave told him that it was the undertaker’s 
assistant, but the boy knew that it was the Latin priest, Vieski. He 
told the men to leave their implements inside the hut, and ordered 
the stable-boy who had conducted them thither to give them lodg- 
ings for the night in his own quarters. “ Return early in the morn- 
ing,” he said; “I shall be here, and then you can do quickly that 
which you came to do.” 

Then at last he was left alone, with no companion except the 
dead ; and he sat there motionless, watching, thinking, and full of 
expectation of the hour which would reveal the mystery he hun- 
gered to know. But he must be wary ; old Isaac or Michel, his 
aunt’s confidential servants, might have an eye at some convenient 
crevice while he worked; he would wait until after midnight, when 
the cold outside would be too intense for any human being to lurk 
around ; then he arose, and drew the coarse checked curtains close 
over the windows ; he hung a large quilt over the door — which had 
been repaired and re-hung — that covered every crack and cranny 
there might be in its frame. This done, there was not a possibility 
of any eye penetrating the interior of the hut through the blank, 


12 


266 


TANGLED PA THS. 


plastered walls. The door was locked and barred. The bedstead 
remained as when Fatiana died. Dimitri went and stood beside it 
and measured its dimensions with his eyes ; then he touched the 
center of it with his finger. “ Right under this spot,” he said in 
low undertone ; “ and now that the moment that will make every- 
thing plain to me is so near at hand, a terror, a dread seizes me.” 
He tried the boards with his feet, they were firm ; but one of them 
creaked slightly, the one that ran under the center of the bed. He 
looked at his watch, it was half-past eleven, and with a great sigh 
he threw himself upon a chair. He was alone with the dead, and 
an awesome feeling stole around his heart. Suppose that cold, 
white mystery lying there — she who had already solved the problem 
of Eternity — should call to him out of the profound echoless si- 
lence ! Suppose she should arise and fix her awful eyes upon him 
while he sought for what she had bidden him ! Dimitri had never 
seen death before ; it was only life that he knew and loved ; this 
thing, this pallid husk of the grain, this cold, motionless, voiceless 
thing was death, and his soul quailed with a mysterious, inexplicable 
dread. He heard the great blood-hounds baying from their ken- 
nels ; once or twice he heard footsteps pattering around the hut, 
then the sound of claws scratching against the door, then low, 
hoarse growls. It was only a stray wolf or two that had straggled 
out of the depths of the forest beyond in search of prey ; death j 
had perturbed the still, cold atmosphere by its presence, and the 
keen, fine scent of the beasts detected and tracked it. Prowling 
round and round the hut, with hungry growls ; barking with rage at 
intervals on finding all their savage efforts to enter unavailing ; dash- 
ing up the rocks against which the little tenement was built, leaping 
upon the roof; trying the wide chimney, but driven back by the 
fierce heat that rose from the fire below, the wolves at length trotted 
away in search of other and more accessible prey. 

It was now midnight. The glow from the stove and the pale, 
white flicker of the funereal tapers cast eerie shadows upon the 
walls, and across the still, shrouded, pallid form of the dead. The 
boy’s face was very white ; its lines fixed and rigid, but it was from 
no lack of physical courage ; his deep emotions, and the struggle 
with the phantoms conjured up by his imagination — unaccustomed 


TANGLED PA THS. 


267 

foes, against which flesh and blood vainly contend — sent the blood 
back to his heart until it felt as if an iron band was tightening 
around it ; but he determined, if he should even die in the attempt, 
to do that for which alone he was there. He lifted the light bed- 
stead away from the spot where it had stood so long that the iron- 
bound posts had left their rust upon the floor, marks which made it 
more easy for him to find the central place he sought. Taking up 
a pick, Dimitri forced it into a crevice between two boards, leaned 
upon the stout handle, and started the nails that secured them ; an- 
other wrench loosened the one he intended to remove ; another, 
and it was up. For fear of mistake, he pried the other from its fast- 
enings, and then pushing them aside he turned the flame of his 
lantern full upon the space they had covered. There was nothing 
there . Nothing except the brown earth, a few chips and shavings 
left years ago by the workmen who had built the hut, and a few 
tufts of dried grass and some withered leaves ; and this was the 
very center of where the bedstead had stood. 

“Suppose she was delirious, and I shall, after all, never know?” 
he cried, in bitter accents, as he stood gazing down at the place. 
“ Oh, to be so deceived ! so mocked ! ” 

He was about turning away, when his eyes, grown more keen to 
distinguish objects, saw something which appeared to have been 
forgotten by the workmen when they laid the flooring ; a piece of 
small rusty iron chain, so near the color of the brown earth upon 
which it lay that it had at first entirely escaped his notice. But 
what was a bit of rusty chain to him ? He spurned it with his foot, 
with a vague and idle sentiment of wrath that seemed to give ex- 
pression to his bitter disappointment. But the chain rebounded 
and fell across his foot. He kicked it off, but it fell coiled in the 
same place ; then he stooped to pick it up, that he might throw it 
out of sight, but it resisted him ; he put both hands to it, and 
pulled with all the strength of his brawny young arms ; a wild hope 
filled his heart ; the chain was buried in the very spot that had been 
indicated to him ; another strain upon it, the earth upheaved, 
crumbled, and broke ; and, pulling more gently now, he discovered 
to his great joy that the chain was riveted to the top of a small 
iron casket which now lay at his feet. 


268 


TANGLED PA THS. 


His heart pulsed with great throbs ; he knelt down, and, bowing 
his head, pressed his lips upon the dust-covered casket, then lifting 
it up reverently, he pressed it to his breast and went toward the ta- 
ble that stood at the head of the coffin, where four wax candles 
were burning, and laid it down, to be near her who had guarded it 
so faithfully for him ; then he raised the napkin from her dead face, 
and whether it was the white, soft flicker of the candles, or his own 
imagination, it seemed to smile upon him. He leaned over and 
kissed the hands that were stiffened around the crucifix, then, by 
some impulse he could not control, he reverently kissed the trans- 
fixed feet of the sacred image thereon. 

Having thus by a beautiful impulse expressed the gratitude that 
filled his heart, he covered up the quiet sleeper’s face again and re- 
turned to his treasure ; sat down, turned it over, and around, but 
saw no way of opening it. Where was the key ? Pondering over 
this new difficulty, a sudden thought struck him. He remembered 
having his curiosity once excited by seeing a small, rough iron key 
hanging to Fatiana’s rosary, and he had often, but vainly, besought 
her to tell him what it was; she had always evaded his questions, 
and put him off. But Feodor — then his playmate — drew him aside 
one day after one of these discussions, and after making him promise 
not to tell on him, revealed to him that “ it was the key of the castle 
where the witches danced when they met.” Speaking louder than 
he intended, Fatiana, who had followed the two boys, seeing mischief 
in Feodor’s eyes, overheard him, and he received a severe rap from 
her crutched stick upon his brainless head. Dimitri remembered 
all this, and was sure that the mysterious key belonged to this 
treasure-trove. But where was the rosary ? He searched round, and 
presently saw the great black beads, polished by constant use and 
the many tears that had mingled with her prayers as she dropped 
the “ Aves ” and “ Paters ” through her fingers, hanging over the 
head-post of her bedstead; there it was, just where she had hung it 
the last time she had consoled herself by reciting the sacred myste- 
ries ; suspended from it was the same old brass crucifix, the medal 
of Our Lady of Perpetual Succor, and one of St. Joseph. It was the 
work of an instant for Dimitri to take the rosary into his hands — nor 
in vain — for, suspended from the same link with the medal of Our 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


269 

Lady of Perpetual Succor, and half concealed by it, was the quaint, 
rusty key ; but suppose it should not be that which he hoped for. 
He adjusted it to the key-hole of the casket with trembling fingers; 
it turned easily ! How his heart choked him ! He must have a 
short respite, for how knew he what he would have to look in the 
face when that lid was raised ? He placed it on the table again, 
and returning to the spot whence he had exhumed it, he trampled 
down the earth so that no trace was left of so small a thing having 
been buried there, then replaced the boards, nailing them down 
with a heavy iron implement he found, that the grave-diggers had 
left along with their picks and shovels when they went away that 
night ; he moved the bedstead back where it had always stood, and 
by the time he finished, his blood was circulating healthily once more ; 
the morbid dread, and the strange terrors that had held him in thrall 
through the trying hours just fled, gave place to a glow of hope ; and 
no longer dreading life or death, the present or the uncertain future, 
he felt nerved for the task before him. It might be that what he 
would find would reveal crime, dishonor, or something that would 
blast his -life ; but whatever it should be, he would no longer breathe 
under a stifling cloud of mystery. The boy would have prayed, had 
he known how ; but religion had only been to him a something to 
be outwardly observed because the imperial decree so willed it ; 
it was part of the machinery of State, and as such he had respected 
it no more than other laws. 

Dimitri opened the casket. The trembling white light of the 
blessed candles shone down upon its contents : a bundle of yellow 
papers, tied together with a faded ribbon ; a miniature case ; an old 
morocco pocket-book, large, frayed, and showing long use, which 
was fastened with a steel clasp ; and underneath these a number of 
foreign gold coins of high value. The papers, one would have 
naturally supposed, would have been the first object of his eager in- 
spection ; but, strange to say, he took up the miniature case, pressed 
the spring that closed it, and when it flew open he beheld a mute, 
pictured face, a face of rare, queenly beauty, that smiled out upon 
him, the blue eyes seeming to look into his with a depth of tender- 
ness that penetrated his heart and thrilled it with a delicious tremor. 
Who was she ? And why should he have pressed it close to his 


270 


TANGLED PATHS. 


heart as if he would take it in among its warmest pulses ? Why this 
strange and tender restfulness, that he had never felt in all his life 
before, which seemed now to calm and hold in check his impetuous, 
willful nature ? 

He untied the faded ribbon that held the yellow, mildewed papers 
together, and discovered a small journal, its pages closely written, 
and in some places blotted with tears ; dropping all the others, he 
began to read it with eager eyes and hungry heart, and it was soon re- 
vealed to him that the beautiful face which had held him so strange- 
ly entranced was that of his mother. Ah ! he knew now that the 
pale, passionless nun at Troitza was what his instincts had made him 
long ago suspect, a fraud ; and, farther on, learned that she was a 
cousin of his father’s, who had consented, on condition of her en- 
trance dower to the convent being paid by the Princess, to person- 
ate his mother. But where was his mother ? There between the 
pages of the journal, carefully pinned to them, were the certificates, 
legal and ecclesiastical, of the marriage of Count Andrea Dimitri- 
Douskoi with Olga von Sturmhofif, the daughter of a banker at 
Hamburg ! Attached by a slender thread of silk to one of these 
papers by a black seal was a small, heavy gold ring — a wedding 
ring — with the word “Mizpah” engraved in raised letters of dead 
gold upon it ; that had been buried with the rest, as if the signifi- 
cance of the word had become a bitter mockery. “ God watch 
between thee and me,” it meant ; had He watched, or had He been 
defied and mocked by broken vows and promises ? The young 
Count dropped the ring ; it told him nothing yet, and it fell ringing 
on the crystal of his watch, which he had laid upon the table to note 
the time. 

That, then, was her name, Olga von Stiirmhoff — his mother’s name 
■ — yes, her very name — for between the next two pages, securely 
fastened to them, he found the certificate of his baptism, containing 
the date of his birth ; his name, Dimitri Andrea Douskoi, and the 
names of his parents ; it was signed and authenticated by the priest 
of the Greek Church who had performed the ceremony, with other 
particulars of date and place. 

We can not detail the contents of this journal and those letters, 
for the hands of the watch there show by the light of the blessed 


TANGLED PA THS. 


271 


candles that in another hour day will dawn ; the time is too short, 
and our space too limited to follow him. But we will tell you briefly 
how it was. The rich Hamburg banker, von Sturm ho ff, his patent of 
nobility new, and conferred for some rare act of fidelity to the State, 
had a beautiful villa on the fertile shores of the Crimea, to which 
he used to retire with his only child, Olga, and two or three chosen 
friends, to spend the summer months. The girl was motherless ; 
Madame von Stiirmhoff, who was a Russian lady of high birth, having 
died when her child was scarcely old enough to understand her loss. 
Disappointed in his hopes of a son, von Stiirmhoff placed his daugh- 
ter’s education and training in the care of learned men, who how- 
ever highly and however faithfully they cultivated her intellectual 
life, knew less than nothing of how to develop to a good and useful 
maturity the sensitive germs of a feminine nature that was enriched 
with rare womanly perceptions and the gifts of poetic genius. They 
taught her a sort of deified morality, more worthy, they thought, of 
an intellectual belief, than the superstitions that enthusiasts called 
Religion ; and Olga reached womanhood as accomplished a pagan, 
and as beautiful, as Aspasia. About this time she first met by acci- 
dent Count Andrea Douskoi, who had come to the Crimea in the 
suite of the Grand Duke, and was staying at the Imperial Lodge 
with a number of gay revelers belonging to the Court. Mutually 
fascinated, they saw each other frequently when driving, or boating, 
or at public entertainments ; then a proper introduction took place, 
and he was given permission by her father to visit them. For her 
society he gave up all else ; and had either of them known what 
true religious principles inculcate, their lives might have been blessed 
instead of cursed, for the fabric of their earthly destiny would have 
been built on a surer foundation than sand, which has no strength 
of its own to resist the stormy tides that beat against and sweep 
over it in those tempests that are sure to come into every human 
life. Count Andrea sought the hand of Olga von Stiirmhoff honor- 
ably and openly, but the proud, honest burgher blood of her father 
was stirred, and he refused his consent until that of the Douskoi 
family should be given. He knew well that a man of the people, 
ennobled by a royal patent, was looked down upon as an interloper 
by the old noblesse , whose sixteen quarterings indicated both sangre 


272 


TANGLED PA TITS. 


azure and then rank ; and if his daughter married among them she 
would have to be received, not as an underling, but as an equal. But 
the family of Dimitri Douskoi was shaken as if by an earthquake 
at the very idea of the heir of the honors of their princely house 
uniting himself in marriage with the daughter of a man in trade ; it 
was a mesalliance , an outrage, and it was forbidden under pains and 
penalties that excited rage and revolt in Count Andrea’s bosom, 
and he determined to defy them all, which he did, by deceiving the 
banker and his daughter into the belief that he had the unqualified 
consent of his family to marry her. The marriage took place quietly, 
according to the rites of the Greek Church, and for a few months 
Olga rejoiced in her newly-formed ties. After that, under pretense 
of business, her husband made long absences from home, each one 
longer than the last, and finally a letter came directed to her, written 
by the old Princess, filled with violent abuse, upbraiding her for mar- 
rying her nephew against the express commands of his family, and 
cursing her as the cause of his disobedience ; then she understood 
for the first time the deep duplicity of her husband’s character. 
Time wore on ; gentle reproaches, or tender expostulations, or the 
passionate eloquence of her outraged heart, failed alike to win him 
back or lure him from the vices which he no longer made even a 
feint to conceal. The romance was ended ; the sparkle gone from 
the wine for him, and for her the lees of the cup, and shattered 
hopes, were only left. He boasted of his debaucheries to her ; 
cruel unkindness, open faithlessness, and at last desertion followed, 
and the threat that he would take their child from her, he left im- 
pending over her like a hair-suspended sword. 

As these revelations broke on Dimitri his eyes grew white with 
tearless rage ! “ His mother ! his innocent, beautiful young mother 

the victim of a brute like this ! Had she no friends to protect her ? 
was there no one to kill him?” cried the boy, grinding his teeth 
with impotent rage. 

No, there were none on earth or in heaven upon whom she could 
call ; her father had died suddenly of paralysis of the brain soon 
after her marriage, and she was without the solace of religion, 
which could alone have strengthened her and elevated her to union 
with and submission to God’s holy will under her repeated and bit- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


273 


ter trials. She was too proud to talk of her sorrows, and she had 
only the stoicism of an unblessed endurance to lean upon. But 
there were two humble individuals of her household in whom she 
felt a certain confidence, and who, by their daily fidelity and un- 
spoken sympathy, assured her of their faithfulness and attachment. 
Strange to say, one of them was a Tartar nurse — Fatiana — who had 
been brought by Count Andrea from his home in Northern Russia, 
and allowed to come, under certain secret conditions, by the Princess 
Dimitri-Douskoi, to take care of his heir soon after the child’s birth. 
The other was an old book-keeper of her father’s, Carl Shaeffer, 
who had retired from the banking-house — now in other hands — on 
an annuity, but had never actually left her father’s service ; and now 
that she was so unprotected he determined never to leave her. 
Learning that his wife had become by her father’s death sole heiress 
of his wealth, without conditions or restrictions as to its use, it was 
not long before Count Andrea returned, and by his old fascinations 
almost persuaded her of his penitence and reformation, and artfully 
kept up the comedy until by stratagem and fraud he despoiled her 
of immense sums, which were lost at the gaming tables of St. 
Petersburg and Paris, and in such debaucheries and riotous living 
as Godless, immoral men waste their substance upon. She cared 
nothing for money, never having known a want ; it might all go, if 
by its generous use her husband could be won back to his home, to 
his child, to a nobler and better life — not her love, for that was al- 
ready wounded unto death ; — she thought — her nature could not tol- 
erate love without respect; but for her boy’s sake she would be pa- 
tient, and give without sparing as long as there was anything to give. 

But Carl Shaeffer saw how things were going to end, and one da}' 
taking courage, he with tears in his old eyes besought her, for the 
sake of her child, to make over for his future use the comparatively 
small fortune that she inherited in her own right from her mother. 
He had taken the precaution to have a document formally and 
legally prepared for this purpose, hoping to win her consent to sign 
it. She at first refused to do so, but he spoke up boldly in words 
that no one else would have dared to utter ; he knelt at her feet 
and begged her by the memory of her father to put this fortune be- 
yond her own reach, that her son might not be left impoverished 


274 


TANGLED PA THS. 


when he arrived at manhood. The faithful old servant prevailed ; 
Fatiana was summoned as a witness, the Countess Olga signed the 
transfer, and they both signed their names. 

Once more Count Andrea came, and offered her an agreement to 
leave her in undisturbed possession of her child, and free her of his 
own presence forever, if she would assign to him a large sum that 
he named, without which he would be a ruined and disgraced man. 
The amount he demanded would leave but a small pittance for her 
support, but she agreed thank full}', caring for nothing except that 
her child should be left to her ; left in peace with him, poverty 
would be welcome — poverty, which she only knew of as an ideal. 
The unprincipled man having gained his purpose, hastened to leave 
the home which had no charms for his vitiated and corrupt tastes, 
and returned to his dissolute companions in Paris. Fatiana, touched 
more and more by the undeserved misfortunes and unmerited suf- 
ferings of her master’s wife, determined to befriend her if she could 
do so without open disloyalty to him — to whom, despite his wicked- 
ness, she was faithfully attached — while under the curt, grotesque 
manner and appearance of the Tartar woman, Olga, always watch- 
ful of what came near her child, had discerned pure traits of genu- 
ine goodness, and at last trusted her fully, finding solace in her 
unobtrusive attendance and the unspoken sympathy expressed in a 
thousand ways by her acts. The days wore on peacefully enough. 
Olga began to take pleasure once more in her studies, which em- 
braced a wide scope of intellectual activity ; her music, her paint- 
ing, her poetic imagination, won her sometimes to a forgetfulness of 
the bitter past ; and where they failed in comfort, the smiles and 
winning ways of her strong, handsome boy supplied the need. 

One dreamy summer afternoon, while she sat under a great tree, 
watching listlessly the shimmer of the distant sea and the white sails 
gliding past, losing themselves in the far-off misty light, old Carl, 
who had just returned from Hamburg, where he had been to attend 
to that business, handed her a French newspaper, and in a choking 
voice said, as he laid his long, bony finger on a certain paragraph, 
“ Read that.” She glanced over it, but made no outcry or other 
sign, for a cold feeling of stagnation seemed to be turning the cur- 
rents of her life to stone. It was only this : Count Andrea Douskoi 


TANGLED PA THS. 


275 ' 


had thrown all Paris into an excitement first by marrying a ballet- 
dancer, shortly after which he had fought a duel and killed his an- 
tagonist, but had escaped justice. “ Take it away, Carl. I will 
speak to you to-morrow. Cut that out for me,” was all she said, 
handing him back the paper, with a frozen look. She arose, and 
was going toward the house, but stopped by the way, where Fati- 
ana, with the child gamboling on the grass around her, sat knitting, 
and told her “to be careful of him, and see that he did not stray 
out of sight ; ” then she went in, sought her bedchamber, and lock- 
ing herself in, stood beating and tearing her breast until her gar- 
ments were rent to shreds, and her white, tender flesh was black 
and purple. No sound escaped her lips, but a froth of blood 
streamed from them where her white even teeth pressed deep into 
them. It was the despair of a heathen ; it was nature struggling 
with a proud stoicism. Had she had the Cross of Christ on which 
to lean, His Passion with which to unite the bitterness of her grief, 
and the Sorrows of that Virgin Mother whose sorrows surpassed 
those of all humankind, to contemplate, how differently had she 
borne her woe ! No tears fell for her relief, no friendly unconscious- 
ness came to lapse her agony into forgetfulness ; but every nerve 
was strained, every faculty suffered separately ; the conflict was 
bitter, and there was “ none to comfort her!" As the sunlight 
faded out of her windows, and the dim twilight shadows crept in, 
and there was nothing of brightness to mock her, the savage excess 
of her emotions subsided ; her arms fell, and the fiery glow of 
“pain’s furnace heat” died out of her eyes. Never could she be 
so hurt again, she thought ; for the last vital spark of earthly love 
and hope seemed forever extinguished, and she measured by its ruin 
the depth of devotion that through all she had cherished for the man 
who had shattered the fabric of her life. By morning a cold, white 
calm had settled upon her ; and when Carl brought her the printed 
slip that he had by her command cut from the paper, she simply 
took it, and, without referring to it in any way, questioned him 
about the business that had taken him to Hamburg ; and when 
he explained to her that it was all satisfactorily settled, and 
handed her the acknowledgments, or certificates of deposit sent 
by the bank officials, she expressed herself well satisfied, and, afte * 

I 


TANGLED PA THS. 


276 

thanking him, went away to her little library, where she stayed 
writing all day. 


There, between these bank certificates, was the scrap of news- 
paper ; Dimitri read it ; a half century seemed to have passed over 
the boy’s head in the last hour or two, as ocean storms bite away 
the land and cast the debris with the fragments of wrecks it sweeps 
along in its course upon some fair island, making grim, unsightly 
formations, and devastating its smiling loveliness. But he folded 
these papers together again, and placed them, according to their 
number, with those he had already looked over, and continued his 
investigation of others, the contents of which we abbreviate. 

The Countess Olga knew that the man through whom her faith in 
all that was highest and best in human nature had suffered a mortal 
blow, would come to her again, driven by his needs, to torment her 
by threats of separating her from her child ; she was wdl assured 
that the written agreement he had given her to leave them together 
in peace was as a rope of sand ; something whispered that a time 
would inevitably come when her babe would suddenly be spirited away 
from her by foul means ; she almost foresaw it, and, obeying the 
prevision, she hastened, with Carl Shaeffer’s assistance, to have the 
small, iron casket made, in which she deposited these sad records of 
her life and other papers necessary to his future welfare. 

Knowing that when her child should be taken, Fatiana would also 
disappear, and confiding in her truth and fidelity, she placed the 
casket in her keeping, beseeching her to preserve it secretly and 
safely until her boy should be old enough for it to be placed in his 
hands. After — with a keen, penetrating glance into the eyes of the 
Countess Olga — she had briefly inquired if there was anything in it 
which would bring danger to Count Andrea, whom she loved — her 
nurseling — loved even while hating his sins, she promised, and we 
have seen how faithfully she kept her word. Years afterward, as she 
stood before a shop window in Moscow, showing Dimitri the glitter- 
ing Christmas toys, an old man, with long, white hair and beard, 
touched her on the shoulder, and placed a small package in her 
hand, saying : “ Conceal it quickly, and put it in the casket with the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


277 


others,” then disappeared in the crowd, and Fatiana, after her first 
surprise, knew that it was Carl Shaeffer. A great dread came over 
her lest he should have come thither with a design to take away the 
boy, the first opportunity that offered, to his mother; and without 
saying anything of her suspicions, she kept him within doors the few 
days longer that the Princess, her mistress, remained in the city. 
Back once more to the country-house, she felt that all was safe, and 
lost no time in placing the papers in the casket as directed. This 
was the substance of their contents. 


Nothwithstanding the apprehensions of the Countess Olga, several 
months passed away without any interruption of the calm that had 
fallen upon the small household ; we say calm, not meaning that it 
was peace. But one day, Fatiana, who had gone out with her charge, 
for air and exercise, did not return. A servant remembered having 
seen her going up to her own room about three o’clock ; but, as 
there was nothing unusual in that, had taken no especial notice, 
or spoken of it. Search was made far and wide for nurse and 
child, but the whole thing had been so artfully contrived and execu- 
ted that the police detectives were baffled, and their flight was as 
trackless as that of phantoms. 

One evening, a year after the loss of her child, the desolate woman 
was sitting alone — in blank, motionless silence, unconscious that 
twilight had darkened the room, so far away her thoughts were wan- 
dering — when there came a muffled footstep ; then a darker shadow 
than the twilight fell upon her, and, raising her eyes, she saw her 
husband standing before her. She shrunk &s if stung, and put out 
both hands as if bidding him come no nearer. Of what passed be- 
tween them, or that he had ever been there, the household servants 
were in ignorance. When they came in with lights, they found her 
unconscious upon the floor. He had come for money, but all that 
was left she had placed it out of her own power to touch. He tried 
to bribe her by promising to restore her child ; he resorted to his 
old arts, by which he had so often deceived her ; but in vain ; she 
could only say, and reiterate : “ I have nothing left to give then, 
losing all control of himself, he declared she should never look up- 

I 


278 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


on the face of her child again — that he should be brought up to 
scorn and revile her memory — then struck her a heavy blow with his 
great fist that would have felled a strong man. She fell, stunned and 
bruised, from her chair ; the physical violence had done that which 
no mental torture or pain could ever effect, and she lay prone on the 
floor in a deep, deathlike swoon, and when consciousness returned 
she was in a raving fever of delirium. 

The day on which the old Tartar nurse and little Dimitri disap- 
peared, Count Andrea had met them as if by accident, but really by 
design, on the outskirts of the park, and ordered her, with the child, 
to get into the carriage that was concealed near the roadside, behind 
a clump of trees. Fatiana knew that the time had come that she 
had so long prayed might be averted ; and, acquainted as she was 
with the desperate iron will of the man, she dared offer no resist- 
ance. But she pleaded for leave to return to the house for a small 
bundle of her things — her best holiday dress, she said — which it would 
make her very unhappy to leave behind. After a moment’s scowling 
silence, he said : “ Go, and return quickly ; I have no time to lose ; 
and so sure as you play me false I’ll throw the boy into the sea 
yonder.” 

“ Do not fear. I mean to be true to thy child, as I have been to 
thee, wicked man ! ” she answered, hastening on her errand, and 
vowing to Heaven, within her heart, to atone for the act in which 
she had been made an unwilling instrument, while tears streamed 
from her eyes at the thought of the desolation it would bring to the 
already stricken heart of the boy’s mother. She brought away her 
holiday dress in a compact bundle, in the middle of which was 
securely wrapped the iron casket, and, getting into the carriage with 
the child and his father, they were driven off as fast as fleet, strong 
horses could carry them. From the beautiful Crimean shores, they 
journeyed post to Northern Russia* and one day Count Andrea with 
Fatiana and the child unexpectedly appeared before the old Princess 
Dimitri-Douskoi as she sat bitterly musing in her richly decorated 
sitting-room, where all the splendors of gilding, paintings, statuary, 
flowers, and silken folds, and lace drapings, and Persian mats, and 
things of fabulous price in gold and precious stones, mocked her by 
their utter powerlessness to bring her peace or soothe the bleeding 


TANGLED PATHS. 


279 


wounds of her pride. She drew herself haughtily up ; the white light 
scintillating in her eyes seemed to emit sparks; she had no word 
of welcome for them, but ordered Fatiana to take the child out of 
her sight ; then after an angry conversation with her nephew, in 
which she reproached him bitterly for the disgrace and dishonor he 
had brought on an unsullied and noble name, first by marrying be- 
neath him, and afterward by his crimes in Paris, she offered to 
adopt his child on condition that his mother should be kept in igno- 
rance of his whereabouts, and that he himself should leave Russia to 
return no more, insisting upon this latter sternly — “ to spare,” she said, 
u the house of Dimitri-Douskol the disgrace of the heir to its rank 
and honors being sent as a felon — not as a political offender ; no, 
she could have borne that — but as a felon , to the mines of Siberia.” 
She bade him begone, and he rushed from her presence, stung 
almost to madness by her words ; he left Russia and became a 
wanderer over the earth, the old Princess only hearing of him through 
her banker when he drew the annuity allowed him. And, strange 
to tell, she grew to love the child so suddenly thrown upon her 
protection, loved him with a jealous, watchful, suspicious vigilance 
that rendered her existence a perpetual and anxious strain, fear- 
ing that he would by some means be taken from her, or go away 
himself if he got the least hint of the facts of the past; or that, after 
all, his father’s vices would crop out in him to dishonor her name yet 
more. 


Dimitri gnashed his teeth ; his brain throbbed : but there was one 
more paper unopened. It was written in the cramped, illegible 
hand of Fatiana. 

“ I have heard this day again from Carl Shaeffer. He sent me a line 
by the priest Vieski to tell me that the Countess Olga is gone away 
to foreign parts, no one knows to what land. Should you ever go in 
search of her — your mother — go first to the Royal Bank at Ham- 
burg and ask where Carl Shaeffer is to be found. Then show your 
bank certificates, and all will be right. I don’t know where she is 
— your beautiful mother — and pray God and Our Blessed Lady of 
Perpetual Help to lead you to her. If you find her, accept it for a 


280 


TANGLED PATHS. 


sign that He pardons me for taking part in that which I dared not 
withstand. The picture behind the silk curtain in the dressing- 
closet of the Princess is your father’s, painted after his marriage. 
Look at it well, that you may know him if ever you meet — and I 
charge you from my grave to forgive — forgive him, forgive me ! 
— Fatiana.” 

“ Go in search of thee, my sweet mother ! Aye ! I only bide my 
time to go to the ends of the earth in search of thee ! ” said the boy, 
as he took up the miniature, and gazed upon it, half blinded by his 
tears. Just then he heard voices and footsteps outside. The men 
had come to dig the grave, and were already knocking at the door. 
Hastily gathering up everything, he thrust all swiftly into the inside 
pouch of his touloupe, and then, obeying a sudden thought, drop- 
ped the casket into the coffin and drew the folds of the woolen 
shroud over it. It was a happy idea, for no one would disturb or 
discover it there ; it would be buried with her. He lingered one 
moment more to look at her poor dead face as if to assure her of 
his forgiveness, then drew on his touloupe carefully, looked on the 
door to see if he might by chance have dropped a scrap of paper, 
or something ; but finding that he had not, he opened the door for 
the men, who came in and began their sad work. Dimitri waited 
while the grave was being dug, and suddenly bethinking himself, ere 
the coffin-lid was screwed down, he snatched up the old blackened 
rosary, and laid it upon the faithful breast that had so often pillowed 
his head and sheltered his motherless bojhood as in a safe refuge. 
There was not the least religious sentiment mingled with the act ; 
the rosary was her one sacred possession, and he had somehow an 
idea that it would trouble her spirit for it to be left to be trampled 
under profane feet and perhaps thrown upon the dunghill, not only 
contemned as the symbol of a despised faith, but also as the relic 
of one whom they said was in league with the devil. The boy could 
do no more ; he had done all that lay in his powder to console her 
last moments, to give rest to her departed spirit, and a place of re- 
pose to her remains where she might “ sleep the sleep of death,” on 
the very spot where the uneasy, fitful slumbers of her life had been 
passed. He heard the coffin lowered into the grave, and the hoi- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


28l 


low rumble of the clods upon it echoed like a mysterious knell upon 
his overstrung nerves ; but he remained until the men had com- 
pleted their task, paid them liberally,, and, having dismissed them, 
locked the door of the hut, and took the key away with him. 

The morning was rising in cold, dazzling splendor over the snow- 
fields and crystallized forests; the atmosphere was spangled with atoms 
of snow put in motion by the wind ; while the sun, with the reflection 
of other suns circling around him, filled the still frozen azure of the 
heavens with inconceivable radiance. Dimitri saw nothing ; his 
faculties of seeing, hearing, feeling were all introverted and fixed on 
one idea — his mother — and how to find her, and when and by what 
means he should escape the strict surveillance under which, he was 
now conscious, his life was held. He determined to keep the pa- 
pers found in the casket in a sealed package about his person ; the 
miniature of his mother, the jewels — superb sapphires and dia- 
monds, and the foreign gold, in a secret drawer of his escritob'e , which 
once — in a sudden freak for mechanism incited by reading some- 
thing curious about such matters — he had himself planned and con- 
structed. No one except Fatiana had known his secret, and when 
with great pride he exhibited it to her, she nodded her head approv- 
ingly, and said: “Tell no one; for some day thou wilt need it.” 
He paid no attention to her words at the time, but now he remem- 
bered and understood them ; and having deposited his treasures in 
the narrow, concealed cavity, he closed it by the spring, of which he 
alone held the key. Dimitri used to be a great sleeper ; his organi- 
zation jealously required compensation for every moment’s loss of 
sleep, with interest, which he never failed to take advantage of to 
the utmost, but now he felt as if he had been asleep all his life, 
dreaming, and had just awakened with every faculty alert to the real 
state of things around him. He knew that he would have to be 
vigilant, and dissemble, and bide his time ; well ! what were a few 
months in comparison with all that he meant to do ? He would 
even accompany his aunt to see the pale nun at Troitza, and let 
them enjoy to the last the fraud of passing her off upon him for his 
mother. “ Mother! ” that should be the watchword and palladium 
of his life until he found her, his own true mother. He went to 
the room of his aunt, as usual, to inquire after her health, and'in- 


282 


TANGLED PA THS. 


form her that her old servant was buried ; after which he gave her 
the key of the hut, which she immediately sent by Feodor to the 
steward to be taken care of; then he joined his young friends 
at breakfast, seemingly as jolly as they, and spent the day with 
them, leading in whatever sports they suggested. 

After they went away — their pleasant visit over — he was free, but 
for one day only, as on the one following he would go back to his col- 
lege at Moscow. There was one thing to be done before he went, 
and for the opportunity to do it he had waited and watched like a 
cat at a mouse-hole. It came unexpectedly. An old friend of the 
Princess Dimitri-Douskoi’s, a person of high consideration, came 
out of his way to pay her a visit, and she felt it to be due to his dig- 
nity and their long friendship to receive him in state, which she did. 
Soon after she left her apartments with her maid to go down to her 
boudoir in the great drawing-room, Dimitri, who was on the watch , H 
entered them, and, unlocking the door of her dressing-closet, went 
in. There was the veiled picture ; he drew aside the curtain, and 
the light from the window fell full upon a face swarthy and full of 
power, lit up by a pair of superb black eyes, whose expression re- 
minded the boy of a couchant tiger ; the broad forehead indicated 
fine intellectual calibre ; the dimple or cleft in the square chin, 
natural traits that generally temper the savagery indwelling in all 
humankind ; but over it all, or from under it all, there looked forth 
a lurking devil that marred the dignity of the countenance and strip- 
ped it of its nobility. 

“ Now I shall know him ; meet him where I may, I shall know 
the destroyer of my mother’s peace,” Dimitri said, through his 
closed teeth. He restored the curtain to the folds he had disturbed, 
closed the door of the dressing-closet, and hastened to join the 
Princess and her guest, she having sent him a message to do so, as 
he was leaving his apartment to go to hers on the errand we have 
described. 


When the ice was out of the Neva — when roses and the blossom- 
ing fruit-trees filled the sultry air of the short hot Russian summer 
with fragrance, the young Count Dimitri, who had got permission 


TANGLED PATHS. 


283 


and a brief holiday to go to St. Petersburg to see the American 
squadron that was expected hourly to make its appearance in the 
river, disappeared, leaving no trace, no message to tell whither he 
had gone. A sudden palsy struck the haughty old Princess when 
the news reached her, and there was nothing of all her grandeur, 
her rank, her pride of birth, or her riches, that could give her a mo- 
ment's solace ; she had leaned upon them, and when the hand of 
God fell upon her they only mocked and pierced her. 

When the Latin priest Vieski heard one day that the young Count 
had fled, or had been assassinated in some secret den in St. Peters- 
burg, he offered Mass for him, whether living or dead, that Almighty 
God would remember with mercy the good work he had done for a 
dying woman, and the generous alms he had one day brought him, 
to be given as he found need, to such as he knew were destitute. 
“ A brave, noble, generous soul,” whispered the priest, “ who only 
needs the refining power of religion to transmute the crude qualities 
of his nature into pure gold, if he is living, as something tells me 
that he is.” 











' 














V-’ 






































































































PART III. 


✓* 




V 


\ 






# 


PART III. 


CHAPTER I. 

The cold winter predicted by weather-prophets, and the signs 
held out by a chilly, inclement autumn, was a failure so far. There 
had been no snow’ fit for sleighing, not enough, in fact, to keep the 
hardy roses from blooming in the open air, in sheltered places ; and 
only a thin crust of ice had formed once on the Potomac. There 
had been fitful cold snaps, followed by sudden thaws, blue skies, and 
warm, bright sunshine, which brought the tender grass peeping out 
of the ground and swelled the buds of the trees ; but it all proved a 
delusion and a snare, for, presto ! of a sudden the wind and sleet 
would come out of the frozen north and drive back the premature 
adventurers, wilted and shriveled, to await the due time of the order 
of nature for their advent. So the fishermen spread their nets and 
cast their lines ; the oyster-boats plied up and down the broad, beau- 
tiful river ; and vessels, some loaded with the delicious bivalves, 
terrapins, and the like luxuries, some with Cumberland coal and 
flour, floated down toward the bay with sunshine upon their sails, 
making what haste wind and tide permitted to reach the Northern 
markets. 

To the “ toilers of the sea” it was a glorious and profitable win- 
ter ; for society also, the weather was all that was desirable ; and 
for the poor, it kept the wolf howling at a respectful distance, as 
the processes of outdoor labor were not interrupted. Boys, it is 
true, lifted up their voices and howled for snow and ice ; they missed 
their skating, coasting, and snow-balling, and felt defrauded. But 
base-ball in a measure consoled them, and afforded an outlet for 
their surplus muscularity, and opportunity for the savage within 

(287) 


288 


TANGLED PA THS. 


them to whoop and run, and strike out to its full satisfaction. Base- 
ball was, then, a good institution for them, in a certain way. 

But there was trouble in the air, and men held their breath for 
fear of that which was impending. Clouds filled with the muttering 
thunders of war were gathering in the political atmosphere ; and 
Washington, being the political center, was like a cauldron seething 
over the fires of wrath enkindled by the frightful issues under dis- 
cussion. The halls of Congress became a new Pandemonium, 
where the utterances of Belial and the threatenings of Lucifer were 
met only by grave parliamentary debate ; “ for,” argued the North- 
ern statesman, “ the South must not be coerced ; there must be no 
excuse given to these madmen to precipitate that which they 
threaten.” Men of sagacious mind, who had been watching the 
signs of the times for years, felt that the crisis was inevitable, and 
also knew how entirely unprepared the Government was to meet it. 
The treasury was stripped of its gold, the army scattered, the navy 
unavailing on account of its finest ships being in far-distant waters, 
and those that remained, dismantled and disabled, in American ports ; 
while most of the arsenals had been stripped, and their deposits of arms 
sent South. These are historic facts, and prove not only a long and 
systematic preparation, but treason of the basest kind in high places. 

The question at issue entered into families, dividing them ; into 
society, demoralizing it ; and even hung suspended in some cases 
like a flaming sword between the porch and the altar. Financial 
tremblors already threatened panic and distress, and the loyal part 
of the country, like a great giant taken unawares, was slow to 
awaken, and did not arouse its full strength, or bring out its ex- 
haustless resources until struck and stunned by the mad onslaught 
that came. History tells the result. We only allude to the subject 
cn passant, as it affected the personages of our story and their sur- 
roundings ; our loyal inclination persuades us to expand, but it 
would be out of place in these pages, and only stir the embers of 
wrath, which, God grant, mav die out entirely. 

Mr. Weston felt the impending destruction of peace and pros- 
perity ; certain immense cotton speculations and Southern railroad 
interests in which he had invested many millions of dollars threat- 
ened absolute loss in consequence of the coming disruption of the 


TANGLED PATHS . 


289 

Union. His friends advised him to go South, and unite his fortunes 
with what was going to be “ the greatest and most prosperous Empire 
on the face of the earth ; ” but Mr. Weston was a loyal man ; he de- 
termined to stand by his Government, and would not stain his 
political integrity by even a neutral position. He would have been 
glad to call in his investments ; in fact, he took every possible 
means to do so, except the alternative proposed by persons in 
league with, the Southern movement ; securing his wealth was a 
secondary consideration ; it must go, if need be, a sacrifice to his 
true allegiance, his honor, and his country. 

Mr. Weston was very quiet and unobtrusive in his sentiments, 
only expressing them when it would seem like a compromise of 
principle to remain silent, but always very decidedly. But Mrs. 
Weston, as did many other ladies of aristocratic pretensions, ranged 
herself on the Southern side ; it was somehow considered the thing 
to have rebel tendencies, and she became one of the coterie that 
met weekly at Madame Slidell’s elegant drawing-rooms, comprising 
the very creme de la creme of the Southern element, which had al- 
ways given tone and grace to society in Washington. But with all 
Mrs. Weston's tact and skill in assimilating the antagonistic elements 
then pervading the best circles of the capital, she could not prevent 
violent discussions between the loyal and secession ladies who fre- 
quented her receptions ; the covert sneers, the sharp bo?i-mots of 
diplomats, some of whom received an intimation from the State De- 
partment that they might expect their exequatur unless they learned 
the science of a more respectful silence ; the bitter witticisms of 
Senators’ wives on the senatorial husbands of other wives, and the 
unconcealed hatred that seemed to pervade the radical portions of 
both parties toward each other, made her sometimes almost de- 
termine to close her drawing-room for the season. But how could 
she withdraw from society in the very height of the season ? for al- 
though these hateful politics made it very embarrassing and disagree- 
able, yet it was also very spicy and exciting ; and besides, there was 
Sybil just on the eve of making a most brilliant match, which she 
desired to hasten on by every means in her power, after which they 
would go to Europe and remain while the North and South fought 
it out. 


13 


290 


TANGLED PA THS. 


It is true that Count Succolov had not formally proposed to Sybil, 
but it was tacitly understood that he would do so. Mrs. Weston 
knew that Sybil would require skillful management to be induced 
to accept him when he did propose, for she had noticed her step- 
daughter’s avoidance of him ; and the struggle that went on in her 
mind when, half fascinated, as a bird by a serpent, she sometimes 
sat listening to the noble and poetic sentiments he uttered, with 
which were frequently mingled expressions of deference and re- 
spect for her religion, of which he frankly professed to be igno- 
rant, but declared himself willing to be enlightened, “ if some one 
would only take the trouble.” A strangely low, sweet voice had 
Count Succolov for a man -of such magnificent proportions, and 
Sybil, sometimes, won by its charms, listened to it as to pleasant 
sounds in a dream, without at all taking in his words, until some ex- 
pressions, forcible and significant, awoke her from her trance, into 
coldness and aversion. He never obtruded himself upon her, yet 
never failed to avail himself of such opportunities as a frequent 
meeting of each other in society afforded, and he was now on such 
terms with both Mr. and Mrs. Weston, that it might really be 
assumed that he was V ami de maison . 

Seeing that her father — with whom he had taken infinite, yet not 
too apparent pains to ingratiate himself — took great pleasure in 
conversing with this man of culture, whose intellectual scope ap- 
peared to grasp all subjects with rare intelligence and sagacity ; and 
knowing that he was a great favorite of her step-mother, Sybil some- 
times took herself to task for the unreasonable prejudice — occasion- 
ally uncontrollable — which she entertained against him. Was he 
not very much older than herself? Were there not threads of white 
showing on his temples ? Did he not regard her as a child, as he 
sometimes called her in pretty French ? Then she would try to van- 
quish all repugnance ; to receive him on the same footing as other 
gentlemen who visited her. But it was of no use ; there was some- 
thing or other within her that continued to rise up in strange revolt 
against Count Succolov, until at last the whispered badinage of her 
friends gave her the alarm, and put her on her guard against his real 
intentions. 

It is not to be supposed that Sybil, beautiful and rich, and 


TAJVGLED PA THS. 


29I 


charming in her sweet simplicity of manner, should have remained 
without admirers, suitors, and offers of marriage, some of which the 
world' pronounced highly .eligible ; but no one of them had as yet 
been able to flatter himself with the slightest hope of even eventu- 
ally winning so fair and rich a prize. Some said she was heartless ; 
others, that she was weaving a web like Penelope’s ; but the gen- 
eral impression was that she intended marrying the Russian Count, 
who had succeeded in turning so many heads, and was yet indiffer- 
ent to the homage he received ; indifferent to every one except 
Sybil, from whom he received no adulation. Any and every reason 
was thought of and suggested except the right one ; but how were 
they to know her motif \ when she herself held it, folded and unde- 
veloped, deep down in her own soul, half unconscious of the “ pearl 
of 'great price” that she possessed? 

Finding her best happiness in the practices of her holy Faith, ever 
recollected, and with eyes fixed upon the true aim of her existence, 
Sybil Weston indeed wore the world as “a loose garment,” casting 
it aside with infinite relief whenever the duties of religion called, for 
one fairer and altogether beautiful. She felt assured that Provi- 
dence had assigned her this place in the world for a wise end ; for 
He who notes the fall of a sparrow, she had full faith to believe 
would take heed and watch over her ; she, as one of His redeemed, 
being “of more value than many sparrows.” Why then trouble 
herself? These brilliant surroundings, mingled with temptations 
and strange trials, had they not already convinced her of the 
utter insufficiency of worldly grandeurs, vanities, and pleasures 
to satisfy the soul ? The altar was her City of Refuge ; its Divine 
Sacraments, the strength and consolation of her timid soul; and the 
powerful protection of Our Blessed Lady of Perpetual Succor, her 
steadfast hope. Into this Sanctuary the world had no admittance, no 
power to harm her. It is true that its distractions sometimes dis- 
turbed her mind and imagination, but it was only as when unblest 
storm-winds ruffle the^urface of the sea, leaving the depths below 
calm and serene. 

Mrs. Weston’s demands upon her step-daughter’s time for fashion- 
able visiting and entertainments were insatiable. Sybil attracted 
crowds of all that was best around her wherever she appeared ; 


292 


TANGLED PA THS. 


and Mrs. Weston, whose charms were on the wane, enjoyed the re- 
flected incense which she shared as her chaperone ; homage that she 
was fully conscious she no longer possessed the power to attract. 
Thus Sybil was a magnet used by her to draw around herself those 
elements which were indispensable to her vain, starving heart ; be- 
sides which she was really proud of the sensation her step-daughter 
made by her beauty and grace; it gave her pre-eminence over 
every one else ; for, as it sometimes happens, the other debutantes 
of this season were, with one or two exceptions, both plain and 
awkward. 

Sybil did not oppose her, except on one point. She would accept 
no invitations on the eve of her regular Communions, or of the Fes- 
tivals of the Church, which she always devoutly observed ; and if for 
some special cause she was forced to go, she remained only a short 
time, then slipped away, threw on her wraps, and ran down to the 
carriage, which Donald, having received a hint beforehand, kept in 
waiting for her, and drove her swiftly home. Mrs. Weston was fu- 
rious on these occasions, and did not scruple to say things that were 
both cruel and undeserved, taunting her with self-righteousness and 
a desire to make a display of her piety, which reddened poor Sybil’s 
cheeks, and brought hot tears to her eyes, but did not in the least 
move her to change her purpose. It grieved her to offend her step- 
mother, who, according to the world, was a very good one ; but she 
met her unkindness by gentle words — gentle, but so firm that after 
a few trials of this sort, Mrs. Weston was convinced that all her 
efforts of interference with her religious practices would be unavail- 
ing ; and she had the good taste — being a Catholic herself, you 
know — to drop all further contention, and leave Sybil to exercise 
her devotion as she willed. And then Mrs. Weston made a merit 
of her indulgence before the world, and was looked upon by it as 
an amiable martyr to social duties, whose piety was not in the least 
Pharisaical, but very deep ; and more than one of those who knew 
nothing of the Catholic religion, except what^hey see in the conduct 
of Catholics themselves, or learn out of novels, whispered : “ How 
nice it is to be a Catholic ! they can do whatever they want to, and 
get absolution from their priests by paying money ! ” This is one 
of the numberless ways by which worldly-minded Catholics, who set 


TANGLED PA THS. 


293 


their religion aside to gratify their human passions, bring scandal 
upon their faith, and hurt souls by wrong impressions and the bad 
inlluence they exert. 

The state of public affairs ; the rumors of war; the fierce, bitter 
discussions that she was frequently obliged to listen to — for now 
nothing else was talked of except the impending crisis — filled Sybil 
with alarm and dread ; she did not know what to do or to think, for 
no one seemed calm enough to reason, and partisan heat ran so high 
that no one appeared to judge dispassionately. What if they should 
really end by slaying each other — these brothers of a common coun- 
try — would they burn cities, pillage, sack, and destroy, as in the old 
wars she had read of in history ? Would the streets run red with 
blood, and the tender, green things of the hills and valleys be tram- 
pled out, and scorched by the fierce ravages of the conflict ? Ah, 
could it be, that the Queen of Heaven, under whose powerful protec- 
tion the Church had placed this fair, prosperous land, would not avert 
this frightful scourge by her intercession ? The girl did not know ; 
political science and the judgment of nations were themes in which 
she was not versed, and she could only pray — each day a rosary — 
and write frightened letters to “ Holy Cross ” urging the good re- 
ligious there to pray that the threatened war-cloud would be dis- 
pelled. Her mornings, until two o’clock every day — at which time 
the visiting tread-mill began to revolve — were at her own disposal, 
which gave her an hour or so at St. Mark’s, or allowed a visit to St. 
Xavier’s, to pour out the prayers of her pure heart for her own sal- 
vation and the nation’s peace. As Sybil drove through the streets 
she saw the eager, angry faces of men all full of this dark spirit 
which was stirring up wrath and destruction ; she heard little boys 
quarreling like young tigers about North and South, at the public 
corners ; she noticed fierce looks on the faces of women, and heard 
deadly words drop from their lips ; the very sunlight seemed to her 
to shine dimly, as if withdrawing the gladness of its beams from a 
world given over to violence. 

Discord, like a new revelation, had also got among the “ Knights 
of the Round Table ” — whom we have lost sight of so long — and 
broken out in a fashion never known before in that united league. 
One day Baste came home with his fingers nearly broken by an un- 


294 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


lucky blow from a bat that was slung at random by one of his com- 
rades at base-ball. The blow was not an accident in the legitimate 
process of the game, in which case Baste would not have taken any 
notice of the hurt, although it was severe ; but the fellow whose 
carelessness inflicted it, instead of expressing some little concern, 
burst into a loud guffaw, in which his comrades, to whom the acci- 
dent to Baste would give the game, joined, and filled the air with 
whoops and yells of mingled triumph and derision. Baste lost his 
head ; all consciousness of pain was gone, .and the next moment, 
squaring himself for a fight, he rushed at the offender, who was 
stronger and older than himself. But Count Succolov, who had 
taken a great fancy to Baste, had given him some lessons in “ box- 
ing,” from time to time, when he and Con, with their mother’s not 
very willing consent, had gone to his rooms at Willard’s, by his 
special invitation ; and now by his skillfully-planted blows, and his 
superior agility by which he avoided his antagonist’s more clumsy 
attacks, it soon became evident that Baste would be the “ upper- 
most dog in the fight.” His opponent saw that he would soon 
have him down ; and, in time to save himself from disgrace, he flung 
himself aside, saying that he would fight no longer with a boy whose 
hand was crippled ; which some, who did not know his motive, ap- 
plauded as highly generous, but which others knew to be sheer cow- 
ardice. Baste would accept no terms, and would have renewed the 
fight if Con had not whispered : 

“ Come, Baste ; enough of this. Think of to-morrow, and of 
mother.” 

Then he gave in, and started home with his brother, fuming and 
raving ; the devil had entered into Baste, and to-morrow the Feast 
of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin ! 

“Stop such talk, Baste!” exclaimed Con, when they got clear 
of the base-ball ground. “ If I didn’t know that you’re too mad to 
think, I’d like to beat you myself. Come along in here to Dr. 
Brown, and get your paw attended to.” 

“I won’t. It’s my hand. Let me be.” 

“ It’s mother I’m thinking of, more than you, you young cub ; I 
don’t want her to be frightened to death. Come on, then ; we can 
go right away to Father Tracy’s, before going home.” 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


295 


“ I won’t go to Father Tracy’s. Go yourself. I’m in no way to 
go to confession, for I’m not in the least sorry for what I did, and I 
mean to beat Bill Fergus within an inch of his life as soon as ever I 
am able to.” 

“ Come in here, and get your fingers mended, then,” said Con. 

“ Yes ; I’ll do that much. I don’t want to frighten mother,” was 
the gruff answer. 

Then the two boys went into Dr. Brown’s office, and, fortunately, 
he was in. He examined Baste’s hand, and found one small bone 
broken in the middle finger and the whole member sprained badly. 
The fractured bone was set to rights, and the two fingers put in 
splints ; bandages wet with arnica were applied to the swollen, pur- 
ple hand ; the lame arm was placed in a sling, after which the doc- 
tor told him to come again to-morrow, and then turned to attend to 
some other patients who were waiting for him. 

When the boys got home, Con asked where his mother was, and 
being told that she was in her room, they went up-stairs to her. 

Mrs. Waite was dreadfully alarmed at first, but when she heard 
that there was nothing very serious the matter, she grew more com- 
posed ; and noticing for the first time the angry scowl upon her 
boy’s face, she began to question him. Con left them together — 
mother and son — and Baste tried at first to restrain himself, but go- 
ing over what had happened rekindled to a fiercer flame his sense 
of indignant wrong, and he gave vent to expressions that nearly 
stunned her. 

Could this be Baste, her “ summer boy,” as she used to call him, 
who was always merry, good-natured, and thoughtful of others ; who 
had never spoken a profane word before in all his life ? Could this 
scowling, surly boy be her Baste ? She saw that he was in no state 
to be reasoned with or admonished ; her heart ached and yearned 
over him, yet what could she do ? It was his first fault, and some- 
thing assured her that when this tide of anger and revenge subsided, 
the boy’s better nature would reassert itself, then conscience would 
speak with 66 still, small voice,” and all would come right again. 

Mrs. Waite left her chair, and went with swift, noiseless footfall 
to where he sat, his head leaning forward upon his hand, as if to 
hide from her sight the flushed, angry countenance, the counte- 


TANGLED PATHS, 


296 

nance, as it were, of a stranger who had no right to be in her gentle 
presence. She slipped her arm around him, drew his face close to 
her breast, and, stooping, kissed his hot forehead, then left him to 
his own thoughts. Ah ! how quickly this tender caress touched his 
heart, falling like balm upon its storminess, melting his fury ! He 
leaned his head down upon his arm, which rested upon the table by 
which he was sitting, and tears burst from his eyes. He would like 
to have done for that fellow ; he had no relentings for him, but to 
grieve his mother, and go on as he had done in her presence, and 
she never saying a harsh word, but just coming up to him like that, 
and even kissing him ! No wonder Baste’ s heart overflowed in 
tears. 

“ Yes,” he said, “I have behaved like a beast to my mother, and 
I am sorry for that ; but I will give Bill Fergus fits just as soon as 
ever my fingers get well.” 

His hand, recovered from the numbing effects of the blow, began 
to hurt him cruelly, and the pain did not act as a sedative, morally 
or otherwise. 

But the tears that Baste shed somewhat assuaged his fury, and 
he began to feel ashamed of himself. He whispered a “ Hail 
Mary,” and resolved to be — not more forgiving — but more of a 
man ; so that when the time came for him to punish his enemy he 
would do it in a way both lofty and severe, which would entirely 
quench him. His hand hurt him cruelly ; every tendon and nerve, 
up to his elbow, was in torture ; but Baste was a brave fellow, and 
could bear physical pain like a stoic, thanks to his healthy constitu- 
tion. “ It is no use, though, to sit here moping, all by myself,” 
he thought ; “ I’ll go the play-room and read, if I can do nothing 
else.” His Uncle Weston had given him at Christmas “ Jess’s His- 
tory of the Pretenders,” and he was deeply interested in the roman- 
tic and chivalrous adventures of Charles Edward, which stirred his 
brave boyish spirit to the highest enthusiasm. 

He went to the play-room, first bathing his red face and smooth- 
ing down his frowsed hair at his mother’s dressing-table before he 
started, that he might be able to look as if nothing much were the 
matter, if his arm was in a sling. When he got to the play-room, 
John, in his wheeled chair, was watching the fire, his thin, long 


TANGLED PA THS. 


297 


hands folded listlessly, thinking thoughts which, by an heroic effort, 
the lame boy never uttered. Clara and Edyth were puzzling over 
some intricate parlor game at the round table ; Natalie was in her 
own room, and Mrs. Waite had gone with Sybil to St. Xavier’s, for 
it was the Eve of the Purification. Baste knew that Con had gone 
to confession, and that Father Tracy would be there sometime dur- 
ing the evening to visit John for the purpose of hearing his. He 
felt like an outcast ; it would be the first time he did not approach 
the Sacraments when the others did, and the thought began to stir 
up the anger that was ebbing away ; for was it his fault that all this, 
which kept him away, had happened ? As the cuttle-fish, when at-- 
tacked, emits an inky fluid which darkens the water and enables it 
to elude pursuit and capture, so our faults and sins, when clouded 
by passion, interpose a shadow darker than that of death between 
the soul and the grace of true repentance which alone can lead it 
back to reconciliation and peace. 

By the time Baste got his book and seated himself and began to 
read, without ever speaking a word to John or the girls, and full at 
the same time of uncomfortable thoughts, the pain of his wounded 
hand exciting more than he was aware of, his irritated nerves, he was 
just in a mood to be left to himself ; but John, unaware of the con- 
flict in his brother’s mind, and wishing to divert his own from de- 
sponding thoughts, which Father Tracy always told him to throw off 
whenever they presented themselves, called to Baste, expecting as 
usual a cheerful or merry reply. But he got none at all. Then 
John began to chaff him to bring him out, but Baste remained 
dumb ; and thinking at last that he was only holding some boyish 
trick in reserve to spring with sudden effect upon him out of his 
silence, he threw a solid india rubber ball toward him with consider- 
able force, and without aim ; but unfortunately it took Baste between 
his eyes, making the sparks fly; in another second a book was 
hurled through the air, which fell obliquely past John’s head, the 
sharp corner grazing his temple ! Hurt in all his delicate organiza- 
tion, frightened, and heart-wounded by treatment like this, so un- 
like any he had ever received before, John fell back fainting upon 
the pillows at his back. In an instant Baste was kneeling beside 
him ; he thought he had killed him, and cried out in his anguish, 

13* 


2gS 


TANGLED PA THS. 


while he kissed the white, unconscious face, and chafed the delicate 
thin hands, upon which his hot tears fell like rain. Clara ran for 
Natalie, her shrieks echoing through the house ; while Edyth, who 
had once seen her mother faint, remembered that they had sprinkled 
water on her face and let in fresh air, threw up the nearest window, 
and rushed away to get water and cologne. But the current of cool 
air revived John, who opened his eyes and wondered what Baste was 
about, kneeling there with that agonized expression on his face, over 
which hot tears were fast chasing each other ; then he remembered, 
and putting up his hand, he laid it against his brother’s cheek, and 
said : 

“ Never mind, old fellow ! you didn’t mean to do it.” 

“ Oh, John ! how can you forgive me ? to be such a coward as to 
hurt you ! Oh, John, my brother ! I would rather have died than 
done it if I had thought a minute,” cried Baste, careless if all the 
world had been there to see his tears and hear his confession of 
sorrow. 

“ I had no business to hit you, Baste ; you know I never struck 
what I aimed at in my life. I only wanted to scare you up by giv- 
ing your book a knock. I was tired and glum. So stop going on, 
there’s a good fellow, and wipe the scratch over with a wet towel, 
if there’s any blood.” 

“No, thank God, there’s no blood; it is only bruised, and the 
skin just scratched a little ; but oh, my brother !” 

“ Come now, enough said. I’m all right. It don’t take much 
to knock me over, and it was an accident,” said John, bravely. 
“ A nice little bit of court-plaster will be becoming ; get it out of 
my paint-box drawer, and cut it with Natalie’s scissors there.” 

Baste hastened to do as directed, taking no thought of the aching 
and throbbing of his maimed hand. 

“ All right now, Baste, old fellow ! ” 

“Are you sure, John — quite sure — that you don’t feel dizzy or 
weak ? ” 

“ Of course I’m sure. I feel quite like a warrior.” And John 
drew his brother’s face close down to his, kissed it with the kiss of 
peace and forgiveness, and whispered something, audible only to 
themselves. 


TANGLED PATHS . 


2 99 

“ I will go, John ! I will try,” responded Baste, the depths of 
whose heart were quite broken up. 

“ Don’t wait, for fear your courage may fail. There ; be off. 
Natalie and the girls are coming ; I hear them,” said John, hurrying 
him off. 

Baste ran down to the hall, threw his loose cloak around him, 
put on his cap, pulling the vizor down over his eyes, and hastened 
away to see Father Tracy to tell him all, covered with shame and 
confusion, desiring yet not willing to forgive his enemy, and with an 
underglow of anger against him, which, we are sorry to say, he felt 
rather a savage enjoyment in. He had made one good resolution 
as he walked along ; he would not revenge himself on Bill Fergus, 
nor seek a quarrel with him ; but then, Bill Fergus would have to 
keep well out of his way. 

What passed between Father Tracy and Baste we do not know ; 
the good priest had been a boy once himself, and there was not much 
of any phase of boy-nature that he was not thoroughly acquainted 
with ; he knew how to smooth down the savage rampant in it, and 
held the key to its higher, better chords ; he knew how to lift up 
the young and ardent soul above brutal, ignoble instincts, and turn 
its courage, its energies, even its hot, strong impulses, into channels 
leading to the elevation of the moral and spiritual nature of the 
untried tempted ones. We only know that, returning home, if 
Baste should have happened to see Bill Fergus drowning or in some 
other deadly peril, he would have risked his life to save him. He 
went straight to his mother as soon as he got off his wraps, and, 
finding her alone and looking very sad, he knelt down by her side, 
leaned his head upon her shoulder, and said : “ Mother, I have 
been to see Father Tracy ; will you forgive me also ? ” 

Forgive ! There is joy in heaven over the repentant, and joy 
akin to it on earth, as full as the human mind can hold, when an 
erring child, penitent and sorrowing, asks a mother’s forgiveness ! 
The mother’s love, so deep, tender, and forgiving, is likened in the 
Holy Scriptures to God’s love for His creatures, and it is the only 
thing to which He Himself compares it ; it is patient, enduring, 
effluent, constant through all, even unto death, and beyond ; hence 
it is easy to imagine the joy that expands it, almost too much for 


3oo 


TANGLED PA THS. 


mortal bounds, when he, the child of her affection, who was “ lost 
and astray,” returns contrite to the Shepherd of souls. Mrs. Waite 
had been sorely exercised the last three hours about Baste ; and 
when she came home, and learned from Natalie what had hap- 
pened during her absence between her two boys, her mind was filled 
with strange misgivings and inexpressible grief about him ; but now 
her mourning was turned into joy, and she lifted up her heart in 
thankfulness that all was well with him. The morrow’s dawn — the 
beautiful Festival of the Purification— found Mrs. Waite and her two 
boys in their usual places at Mass ; and together they received the 
“ Bread of Life,” one of them with a new-born humility of heart 
which was born of repentance. Sybil was with them, as she always 
was on these holy occasions ; Clara and John waited at home, where, 
a little later, Father Tracy, after his Mass, came and administered 
to them both the Food of Angels. Natalie was the only one of the 
family absent from the Heavenly Feast ; shivering and starving, lost 
to all consolation by her infidelity, was there none to help her ? 

It is Saturday. The play-room fire is sparkling and throwing out 
its very cheeriest glow upon the faces gathered around it ; the bright 
flames crinkle, and the soft, purring sounds always made by a wood 
fire might be heard, were it not for what John calls the “ chin-music” 
that is going on, which not only drowns the harmonious murmuring 
of the fire-spirits, but also the angry beating of the rain upon the 
window-panes, as it dashes in swathes against them. Sybil, who has 
begged off from a reception and some private theatricals, is there ; 
her cares and trials, all disguised in flowers and decked with jewels 
though they were, no less wearisome for her to bear, left outside the 
door of this peaceful, Christian home, which is her haven of rest, to 
which she flies whenever she can. Edyth, who has grown to love 
her sister with a jealous, exacting affection, and yields imperceptibly, 
but surely to her influence and example, is with her. She is leaning 
against Natalie, glowering and out of temper with Clara, who is 
snuggled close to Sybil, her elbows resting upon her lap, her face 
aglow with happiness at being so near her. Edyth looks upon it 
as an usurpation of her own proper, rightful place ; but she leans 
against Natalie, very quiet, her fluffy golden hair falling in curls and 
crinkling to her waist, brushing the pale, statuesque face that bends 


TANGLED PA THS. 


301 


slightly toward her, the touch of the warm head and shining hair 
sending little electric waves of bitter-sweet memories to her be- 
numbed heart. They have just finished playing “ Going to Jerusa- 
lem,” and John, Con, and Baste are scattered about promiscuously, 
making themselves heard from every quarter. Baste has heard good 
news from one of the “ Knights of the Round Table,” who ran in 
toward evening to tell him that the boys were all down on Bill 
Fergus, and were not going to play with him again until he had 
apologized for his unfair, brutal conduct. 

44 Oh, tell the fellow that I’m willing to forgive him ; and tell the 
other fellows to mind their own business.” 

We are afraid that Baste felt too much justified for his own vio- 
lence, and a little exultant over Bill Fergus’ humiliation, thereby 
losing the merit of a more perfect forgiveness; but then he was not 
a saint, and had that strong, rampant boy-nature of his to fight down 
before he could bring himself up to the higher standard of Christian 
living which it generally takes a lifetime to do. That he had dispo- 
sitions in the right direction was something to be grateful for, there 
being in them that hope which always yields, more or less, good fruits. 

So Baste is in the merriest of moods this evening; he knocks his 
crippled hand now and then, accidentally ; hurts it so sharply that 
he involuntarily exclaims 44 Ouch ! ” and hops on one leg, but the 
thought of Bill Fergus turns his uncouth exclamations into a whistle 
which attempts a tune ; and John watches him with a twinkle in his 
eyes, though he takes no further notice. They are all tired and 
panting with the effort to 44 get to Jerusalem” ; even John is out of 
breath, but it is only from playing on the jews-harp too vigorously ? 
there being no piano in the play-room, and it is a game that can not 
succeed without music. 

The fun and scramble of 44 going to Jerusalem,” tired them suffi- 
ciently to make them quite willing to keep their seats, which prom- 
ised a dull time, until some one proposed conundrums, and co- 
nundrums were proposed which would have puzzled the seven wise 
men of Greece, the solution of which, when they came, would be so 
absurdly simple as to cause shouts of laughter at their far-fetched 
efforts to guess them, and at what, now they knew, seemed their 
sudden idiocy. 


302 


TANGLED PAULS . 


In the midst of this fan, Mrs. Waite, who had been with a visitor 
down-stairs, came in with an open letter in her hand. The circle 
immediately widened to admit her, and a chair was placed for her 
close by John ; this was ever her place when she came to them, and 
his when they went to her, and the thought of its being otherwise 
never entered their minds. Whatever cares might be pressing 
upon her, and however her face might be saddened by them, a scene 
like the present never failed to gladden her countenance, dispersing 
for the time every cloud that oppressed her, until she was ready to 
enter into the spirit of their innocent enjoyments, making them 
thereby very happy. 

“ I don’t know another one, does anybody ? If they do, out with 
it ! ” exclaimed Con, throwing back his head, with a comic expres- 
sion of entire exhaustion upon his countenance. 

“ Yes, I do. What is in that letter mother has got ?” exclaimed 
John. 

“ That is curiosity, my boy, not a conundrum ! ” said his mother, 
laughing. 

“And that is begging the question, madame — that’s like Aunt 
Weston,” said Baste ; then making haste to finish what he had to 
say, to cover his sarcasm, he added : <c It is a law of the Round 
Table to explain.” 

“ Baste is hungry for that letter ! ” laughed Sybil. 

“So am I”; — “And I”; — “And I” — was the unanimous re- 
sponse. 

“ How much breath people would spare themselves for better 
purposes, if they could only have a little patience ! I brought this 
"letter to read to you all.” 

“ Like a good mother-bird with a nice worm in her bill for her 
squalling brood,” replied John gravely. “ Now, mother !” 

“This letter is from over the seas, from Mrs. Bradford, who 
writes from Paris. Ah, Natalie ! I knew that you would be glad to 
hear news from the Bradfords ; and I tell you at once that they send 
you no end of loving messages.” 

A soft glow rose to Natalie’s face ; a smile, tender and radiant, 
quivered over her sensitive lips ; it was like a dream of resurgam to 
her dead faith in humanity to learn that she was remembered with 


TANGLED PA THS . 


303 


affection after so long a time ; and the vibration of this chord, rare 
and difficult to touch, always stirred within her an incomprehensible 
emotion, which, had she only known it, was the echo of her soul, 
asserting its existence and its capacity for the holiest, purest, and 
most ennobling sentiment known to mortals ; for intimately united 
with their humanity, it shares their purest enjoyments, and has the 
power by grace to lift them far above its weaknesses. 

“ I am glad to be remembered,” she said, in gentle, low tones. 
“ Are they coming home, Mrs. Waite ? ” 

“No, I am sorry to say. They will remain abroad until peace is 
restored to the country. Mr. Bradford’s nephew, who has charge 
of his affairs on this side the water, brought me this letter, and tells 
me he is instructed to invest everything his uncle has in foreign 
funds.” 

“ I say, mother,” said Baste, “ if I was a man like Mr. Bradford, 
I’d come home and fight for my country.” 

“ I am glad that you are only a lad — oh, more thankful than I can 
express, that no one of you will be called into a conflict like the one 
that is coming. And remember, Mr. Bradford is nearly sixty years 
old,” 

“ I don’t like the thought of civil war ; if it was only the English 
now ! ” said John gravely. “As it is, I should like to be as far from 
it as Mr. Bradford is ! ” 

“ I think I could beat the drum, mother ; rub-a-dub, rub-a-dub-a- 
de-dub,” remarked Con. “ But I couldn’t fight ! Ow ! it makes 
me sick to see a chicken killed.” 

This made a laugh ; any nonsense will raise a laugh among young 
people who are healthy and have clear consciences, by which we 
mean to intimate that laughter is really a natural and a very useful 
institution in the integral order of physics. 

“Our friends write me accounts of wonderful things,” said Mrs. 
Waite, when quiet was restored, always glad to turn the thoughts 
and conversation of her children away from the exciting subjects 
which then occupied and excited the minds of even the most peace- 
fully inclined. “ They have just returned from a village near the 
Pyrenees, where they saw and talked with a little girl to whom 
Our Blessed Lady has appeared and conversed with many times.” 


304 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


“Was the little girl a princess, mamma? Oh, -I know she must 
have been a princess ! ” exclaimed Clara. 

“ No. She is the child of poor and humble peasants ; a delicate, 
unlettered little thing, whose sole education was the Catechism and 
the rosary. Her family are so poor that they barely manage to live 
by incessant labor ; and this favored child, weak and seldom well, 
could only be clothed in coarse, but warmer garments than the rest? 
by sacrifices on their part. She was singularly humble of heart, 
and her best recreation and rest was when with rosary in hand she 
could spend the time not assigned to work before the altar of the 
village church ; or when, minding the pigs on the banks of the 
river, she sheltered herself from observation under a projecting rock 
and recited her simple devotions. A gentle little soul she was, 
often chided for so much praying, and never commended, for they 
were poor, and thought her time would be better spent in some sort 
of labor adequate to her strength, by which her family might be 
benefited. Not that she ever neglected or avoided what was re- 
quired of her; but her mother, who was a devout Christian too, 
thought if she found so much time to pray, she might find more for 
other things. Sweetly obedient, she cheerfully did all that was re- 
quired of her ; but nothing prevented her from praying ; to pray 
was the impulse that seemed to make her heart beat, and so she 
prayed walking, standing, working, sitting down, or out on the hill- 
side tending the pigs, before the shrine of the Holy Virgin, or kneel- 
ing before the Blessed Sacrament ; wherever she was, whatever she 
might be doing, the little peasant girl whispered her simple prayers, 
no one knowing, no one listening but the bending heavens, and He 
who reads and knows the secret souls of men. And it is well to re- 
member that it is God’s way to manifest His greatest wonders to the 
humble, sending “ the rich empty away.” 

“ He did that to Our Blessed Lady, and to the poor shepherds 
of the hills, when His Son was born,” said John, as if he was think- 
ing aloud, his voice low-toned, like the echo of something within. 

“ But where did they see this child, mother ; and what is her 
name, and how did they find her out ? ” asked Con. 

Baste was silent. He was wondering if the Blessed Virgin would 
have so favored this little girl if she had ever given way to angry or 


TANGLED PA THS. 


305 


revengeful passions. He made no remark, however — for a wonder ; 
but, deeply interested, and also very curious, he fixed his eyes 
steadily on his mother’s face, that he might not miss a single word. 
In fact, every face there wore an expression of interest — even Nata- 
lie’s, except that with her look of intent listening was blended a 
shadow of sarcastic incredulity that she was not at all conscious of 
showing. 

“The Bradfords,” continued Mrs. Waite, “had heard some 
rumors of strange, supernatural events that were taking place in 
the little town of Lourdes, in the department pf the Hautes-Pyr- 
cnees, at the juncture of the seven valleys of Lavedan. Between 
the. last hills which terminate the plain of Tarbes and the first abrupt 
rocks of the mountain, the town is nestled — a large, isolated rock 
towering above it, upon the summit of which there is a castellated 
fortress. A noisy little river rushes over flint stones through the 
town, named the Gave, and its borders here and there have a hard, 
savage aspect. It was here that it was said the Blessed Virgin had 
appeared to a little peasant girl named Bernadette Soubirons, and 
that miracles have already been wrought by the waters of the grotto 
in which the apparition was manifested. The daily papers ridiculed 
the whole matter ; the Church held aloof, knowing that if these 
things were of God He would in His own grand way make it appar- 
ent ; and if a delusion and snare from the powers of evil, they would 
fall to nothing, without fruit ; and Mr. Bradford, inclined to incredu- 
lity, and somewhat affected by the tone of the Paris press, positively 
refused to visit the spot, until one day he suddenly remembered that 
it was to this very Lourdes that he had made up his mind to go, to 
inspect the fortress, which was restored from a ruined mediaeval 
castle, and was known before the Revolution as the Bastile of the 
Pyrenees. He had acquired great archaeological tastes in his 
travels, and was delighted to have so good an excuse as this to 
oblige his wife and at the same time gratify himself. A castle that 
had been respectively in possession of the Saracens, the English, 
the Counts of Bigorre, and the sans-culotte Revolutionists, was a 
treat not to be slighted, and to Mrs. Bradford’s great joy they 
started that afternoon on their journey.” 

We can not give here all the contents of Mrs. Bradford’s inter- 


306 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


esting letter, more interesting than any printed account we have 
yet seen ; the world has heard the thrilling story, and the wonder- 
ful details of all that the seer-child witnessed and heard ; and how 
by the waters of the miraculous fountain that sprang in the Grotto 
glorified and made holy by Mary’s presence, the lame, the blind, 
the paralyzed, and the suffering are healed as in a new Bethsaida. 
Mrs. Waite read it every word to the little circle around her, whose 
eyes were moistened with tears, and in whose hearts — enthused to 
new devotion — arose strong aspirations, and tender, loving grati- 
tude toward the sweet Mother of Jesus. John clasped his mother’s 
hand closer and yet closer ; a strange hope was kindled in his heart 
as she read on, a hope that found swift response in her own ; but 
neither of them uttered it yet. 

It was evening now ; the shadows and rain wrestled together 
without ; but within, peace— born of faith — reigned over this de- 
vout Catholic family, upon whose minds the wonders they had been 
hearing fell like chrism — fell upon all like chrism, except Natalie, 
whose heart got into so strange a tumult that before Mrs. Waite 
quite finished reading the letter she quietly left her seat and glided 
from the room. They were all accustomed to her little occasional 
“ eccentricities,” as the boys called them, without in the least sus- 
pecting the terrific experiences that gave impulse to them, and no 
notice was taken of her going away. 

“ And now,” said Mrs. Waite, re-folding the letter, “ shall we say 
the decade of the 4 Glorious Mysteries’ in honor of Our Holy 
Mother ?” 

The response was an eager, but subdued affirmative, and never 
were devotions uttered with greater fervor than now, when this 
Christian mother, bringing her sheaves in her arms, offered them 
to Jesus and Mary. 


CHAPTER II. 


It was evening. Directly after dinner Mrs. Waite had gone to 
see her protege , Miriam Hunter, who was ill of a low, lingering, 
nervous prostration, brought on by unaccustomed and close confine- 
ment to her needle, and by the anxieties always attendant upon a 
precarious means of self-support, to say nothing of the humiliations 
and stings under which her proud nature hourly winced to find her- 
self destitute and forgotten by her former friends — parasites is the 
better word — who had formerly basked in her prosperity, and sought 
her on every occasion with expressions of adulation and all the 
showy zeal of simulated interest. Suffering the evil consequences 
of a first false step, and unsustained by a living faith in the Source 
of all strength and consolation, it was not strange, but natural, that 
she should have pined and fretted under trials which otherwise 
would have brought her nearer to God. Her only glimpses of hap- 
piness were in her handsome, healthy boy ; but even these were 
dashed with such bitterness by the thought of his future that she 
wondered if it had not been better he had died, that night long ago, 
when, under Providence, he was by Mrs. Waite’s tender ministra- 
tions brought back to life, to life and its bitterness. 

There was no one at home except Natalie ; the children had gone 
to a friend’s house to see some charades in which Baste and Con 
were to take part, and she was sitting all alone’ in the drawing-room, 
into which she had listlessly gone, after seeing the young folks off. 
There was no light except a smouldering glow in the grate, which 
scarcely relieved the gloom ; and Natalie — her head leaning back 
against the cushioned chair, her eyes half closed, as we sometimes 
see the eyes of the dead, one hand toying nervously with the pearl- 
set medal which she always wore, but only as a souvenir of friend- 
ship, the other motionless upon her lap, and her face showing marble 
white amidst the shadows — sat there in the silence, almost as mo- 

(307) 


308 


TANGLED PATHS. 


tionless as if her soul had gone forth to seek in its Past the phantoms 
of her impenetrable life. 

“ Ah, Natalie ! All alone ? Where are they all ? Where is my 
aunt ? ” 

Natalie lifted her head, looked with a startled, dreamy glance 
around her, then held out her hand. 

“ I believe I was dreaming,” she said, “but I am all awake 
now.” 

“Pardon me, dear Natalie, for breaking in upon your dreams. I 
could almost hope they were not pleasant ; then I should feel ex- 
cused for awakening you,” said Sybil Weston — for it was she— 
drawing a tabouret close to Natalie’s knee, and leaning upon her, 
still holding her hand in both her own. 

“ Be satisfied then. I was in dreams of things best forgotten ; 
and it is more healthy to be awake. I am very glad to see you ; 
you sometimes see in your rubrics something about ‘ light coming 
out of darkness,’ and so you come to me now.” 

“ Then I know you are glad to see me, even if I did steal a march 
upon your nice little nap ! ” said Sybil, with a sweet little ripple of 
laughter. 

“Twice glad ; for when before did I ever have you all to myself? 
The others — all of them — have the best right to you when you are 
here, and it makes them happy.” 

“ Never mind, dear Natalie ; Lent will be along presently, and I 
shall have more liberty from what mamma calls 4 social obligations ’ ; 
and 1 am coming for you then, the very first bright day, to go with 
me to Westover, to spend the day among the flowers — you and I, 
and nobody else.” 

“Ah, how beautiful that will be! Sybil and the flowers all to 
myself for a whole day ! ” said Natalie, passing her soft, shapely 
hand over Sybil’s cheek. “ Did you hear, ever, what your name 
means ? ” 

“No, indeed; but it really has a pagan sound to me. Do you 
know?” 

“It is not what you call pagan ; it is very Christian in its signifi- 
cation. It is derived of Syos , which signifies Dens, God, and beele , 
as much as to say thought ; so that Sybil means a 7V0?nan that has 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


309 

God' s thought ; this at least an old writer* tells us. And I think 
the name is suited to you, fair child.” 

“ Oh that it were, Natalie ! You can’t tell how I disliked being 
called Sybil, instead of Cecilia, after I came home; but my father 
wished it ; and now I am perfectly content ; only it is too grand a 
name for a common mortal like myself.” 

“ Well, we do not give names to ourselves, but sometimes we 
grow to fit them. Now I will answer your first questions. The 
children are spending the evening at Mrs. Osborne’s, who has got 
up some — what is the word ? ah ! some clever charades, for a little 
party she gives, and Mrs. Waite, she has gone to visit her sick 
friend, Mrs. Hunter, poor lady ! ” 

“ Oh, Natalie ! if I only had time to go there too, this moment ! 
but mamma would only spare me to come here for about ten 
minutes, and she will be offended if I keep her waiting, for we are 
invited to dine with the Japanese Princes at the President’s ; and 
although I don’t care for the entertainment, I do really want to see 
those strange people, and how they will behave among cultivated 
persons — ” 

“You will be surprised, no doubt, to find them able to instruct 
the Western civilizations in politeness, dignity, good-breeding, in- 
telligence, and courtesy.” 

“Really, Natalie?” 

“Really so,” said Natalie, with the nearest approach to a smile 
that ever appeared on her countenance. “But can you not trust 
me with your errand, or message ? ” 

“Yes, indeed, if you will be so good. I hoped to have found 
Aunt Waite at home, for I have good news — oh, such good news, 
for Mrs. Hunter — and I so much wish she could hear it to-night. 
Senator Morland has got writing for Mrs. Hunter from the Interior 
Department, with the privilege of having it at home, and she will 
no longer be obliged to drudge day and night over her needle, which 
scarcely wins bread for her and the little boy. And, Natalie — ” 
Sybil hesitated, while a soft glow overspread her lovely face — “ will 
you please tell Aunt Waite that I am going to do the writing 


* Isiodorus. 


3io 


TANGLED PATHS. 


for Mrs. Hunter until she is well enough to do it herself? That is 
all.” 

“ Ah, that is very, very much ; so great peace it will bring to that 
poor lady’s heart ! I will write a little note, and send it by one of 
the servants to Mrs. Waite immediately.” 

“ Do, dear Natalie, for I must fly ; else mamma and Count Succo- 
lov will be waiting ; but, you see, I am all dressed ! ” laughed Sybil, 
opening for a moment the wide folds of her ‘ermine-lined cloak, 
under which Natalie saw the shimmer of rich white silk, the filmy 
trimming of priceless laces, the flash of jewels, and one stainless lily 
that nestled among violets upon her breast, and then quickly closing 
it again. 

“Tell me one thing — just one instant — who is Count Succolov?” 
said Natalie ; and, as if moved by some sudden impulse, she fixed 
her wonderful eyes, now full of deep expression, on Sybil’s, almost 
piercing them by the fixedness and earnestness of their gaze, and 
laying her hand with restraining gentleness upon her shoulder. 

“ I do not know ; he was properly introduced. I suppose he is a 
gentleman of rank, as they say,” answered Sybil, standing quite still, 

“Yes, that may be; but — oh, pardon the liberty — is it true that 
you and this foreign Count are affiancee ? I have heard a whisper 
like this ; and there’s something here,” she said, striking her breast 
“ that urges me to know ! ” 

“No, Natalie,” answered Sybil, whose face paled, and now wore 
a troubled expression. “Not yet. I answer truly when I say ‘not 
yet ’ ; for I have a great dread about it. I am so beset — I seem to 
be tangled in a web like a fly. Even my father would like it ; but 
nobody says anything to which I can answer No, which is the worst 
of it, for I am conscious of an inevitable something closing around 
me.” 

“And what, then, can you do, fair white soul? how escape it?” 

“ By prayer. That is all ; but it is much, and I am sure Our 
Blessed Lady of Help will deliver me. But I shall have trouble, I 
feel that.” 

“ And this Count ? Does he interest you ? ” 

“ Interest me ? Oh, yes ! he fascinates, he bewilders ; but when 
he goes away I shudder at the very thought of him.” 


TANGLED PATHS. 


311 

“That is not love,” said Natalie, in low, measured tones, as if 
speaking to herself, and with a great sigh of relief ; “ it is a spell of 
the imagination only ; it fades with his presence, and leaves the 
reality, which is aversion.” 

“ I must go now. It has done me good to speak out so, Natalie. 
May I talk with you again ?” 

“ Whenever you will. And if a time should come when I can 
serve you, I will peril — yes, my very life to do it,” said Natalie, in 
low, passionate tones. 

“ I pray that no such extremity as that will ever arise, dear 
Natalie ; but I thank )'ou all the same, knowing that you mean 
what you say,” replied Sybil, wondering a little at the intensity of 
her expressions, but supposing that they were due, in a degree, 
more to the exaggerated sentiment of foreign habits of thought, than 
called for by any actual possibility. 

She kissed Natalie’s cheek and flitted out of the darkened room. 
Natalie heard the snap of the carriage door, then the prancing and 
hoof-beats of the horses on the stones of the street as they dashed 
away from the house. Pausing a few moments, standing in deep 
thought, where Sybil had left her, she murmured : 

“ If it is as I fear, I will dare everything to save her.” 

Then she went quickly across the hall into the small library and 
wrote a hurried note to Mrs. Waite, containing the substance of 
what Sybil had desired her to say in relation to the clerkship for 
Mrs. Hunter ; rang for a servant, and who but Uncle Tom himself 
should answer the bell ! He had gone with his “ mistress to Mrs. 
Hunter’s, to carry some things, and come back home to ’tend to his 
hosses’ bed that he had clear forgot to spread ’fore he went ; and he 
was just puttin’ on his coat to go for her when the bell rung ; and 
the gals bein’ both out, he thought he’d step up and see what was 
wantin’.” 

So he exclaimed, and as no one ever attempted to interrupt 
Uncle Tom until he got through his speeches, for fear of prolonging 
them, Natalie heard him out, thanked him, and confided the note to 
his faithful care, with that gentle, gracious manner so natural to her, 
that it was a common saying among the servants, “ If she is po’, 
she’s a royal lady bred ail’ born.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ If I could feel glad,” she murmured, as the servant disappeared, 
“ I should rejoice at the happiness that note will impart to a deso- 
late woman — no, not desolate ; what mother can be desolate whose 
child is spared to her ? ” 

She went up to her own room. The chambermaid, knowing that 
she always spent her hours here when the family were absent, had 
lit her reading-lamp, thinking to have it ready for her when she 
came up ; but she extinguished it, and once more enveloped herself 
in shadows, which were heightened and made more eerie by flicker- 
ing blue flames that danced through the fissures in the shapeless 
lumps of soft bituminous coal heaped up in her grate. A single 
touch, in obedience to her will, and it would have fallen apart with 
a royal splendor of flame and sparkle ; but her darkened spirit was 
in no mood for light, material or otherwise ; it was filled with a 
strange unrest, which for weeks she had struggled to master as only 
strong minds can ; long walks, incessant study when free from her 
scholastic duties, the working of difficult problems, and thoughts 
resolutely averted from the past, were some of the means she used 
to drive back the haunting shadows that threatened her ; but all in 
vain, for the phantoms were undefined and intangible. In the 
natural order, the approach of a new planet, hitherto unknown to 
explorers of the heavens, is discovered by the perturbation apparent 
in another long known and familiar to them ; is it, then, incredible 
that finely-strung, sensitive human organizations sometimes feel the 
coming of a baleful something toward them, before it is revealed to 
their sight ? 

Natalie did not attempt to give shape or form to her dread ; she 
had only tried her best to put it from her, but without success ; and to 
add to the torment it gave her of late, tangled in with the meshes 
of her gloomy presentiments was the thought of Sybil Weston ; and 
a hungry, unaccountable craving to see Count Succolov, “ who,” she 
had one day lately heard Mrs. Weston tell Mrs. Waite, “ would 
shortly offer himself to Sybil, and be without doubt accepted by 
her, as it would be a very brilliant match, and one that her father 
highly approved.” Natalie had heard no more ; having got the 
book she had come for, she went out, closing the door after her. 
But she saw that Mrs. Weston’s face was flushed and angry, when 


TANGLED PATHS . 


3 X 3 


the prolonged conference was over, as she went out with “ many a 
flirt and flutter” to her carriage,* and that Mrs. Waite remained un- 
usually grave and silent the rest of the day. Who was Count Succo- 
lov ? A terrible suspicion took possession of her ! Could it be so ? 
Would her enemy dare, wrapped as he was in iniquity and crime, 
seek the companionship of so fair a soul as Sybil Weston’s, whose 
life would be blighted and ruined by the very foulness of his ? 
Could it be he? Was she unreasonable? Had her own griefs un- 
settled her mind ? If not, then there must be something more than 
monomania in her impressions. To marry a needy adventurer 
would bring sorrow enough ; but him ! if so it should be the 
man she most feared and hated upon earth, Sybil should be saved 
at any cost ; there was one priceless hope, but even that would she 
forego to baffle this unprincipled schemer, and shield that pure white 
soul from the threatened evil. Over, and over, and over again these 
dire possibilities conjured up by her fears revolved in her mind, un- 
til her brain throbbed with impotent thoughts which suggested no 
help. 

And so she sat there upon the floor, still thinking — the flicker of 
the blue flames in the grate playing eerily over her white, sorrowful 
face — sorrowful, yet stern and almost despairing, her fingers toying 
with the gold chain from which was suspended the medal of the 
Holy Mother of Sorrows. Can you imagine a more terrible phase 
of human anguish than that which is without the least spark of su- 
pernatural hope, a soul cut off from God, desolate and trembling in 
the gloom and earth-fogs of unbelief: “ Having eyes that see not, 
ears that hear not,” and groping in haughty self-reliance among the 
pitfalls around its feet, from which the loftiest intellect and most su- 
perb genius are insufficient to save, if it fall ? Ah ! better than the 
world’s all, a simple, unlettered mind, enlightened by a true and 
living faith, than this with its intellectual pride, its wide scope of 
human reasoning, its science, its analytical subtleties, its learning, 
without it, which, unconsecrated by faith, is of the earth, earthy, and 
perishes in the dust. 

Still fingering the chain about her neck — a nervous habit she had 
lately fallen into — the clasp became unfastened, and the medal, 
slipping off, fell into her lap. This recalled her to herself, and in 
14 


3 T 4 


TANGLED PA THS. 


readjusting it her mind wandered all at once to Mrs. Bradford’s let- 
ter, which Mrs. Waite had given her to read over at her leisure, the 
day after she had read it to the children in the play-room, and which 
Natalie had perused from beginning to end with a singular inter- 
est, even while she smiled at the simplicity that so easily accepted 
such marvels — marvels, she argued, only of the imagination. She 
had never spoken of it ; there had been no occasion for her to do 
so ; but she had spent a long, sick summer at Lourdes, the year be- 
fore she left France ; and that night in the play -room, while Mrs. 
Waite was reading Mrs. Bradford’s letter, and every one was listen- 
ing with the deepest interest to the history of Bernadette Soubirons 
and the Apparition of the Blessed Virgin in the Grotto, she all at 
once remembered that she had frequently seen this very child, who 
used to bring her milk to her, and sometimes water-cresses, or a 
handful of wild flowers ; a poorly-dressed, pale-faced, wide-browed, 
dark-eyed child, sallow and without any of the fresh charms of child- 
hood about her ! A sickly child, she heard them say ; a burden to 
Mother Soubirons, instead of a help ; too weakly even to go out ot 
a windy day to tend the pigs. And she remembered what a simple, 
courteous little maid — without the least self-consciousness — Berna- 
dette was ; always discreet and gentle, and not given to childish 
imaginations. 

But Natalie never spoke of herself, or of circumstances or 
persons in connection with herself that could by any possi- 
bility lead to further questions which it might be difficult to 
evade ; and so she had held her peace. But how vividly the 
picturesqueness and rugged scenery of the valley through which the 
Gave dashed over its rocky bed arose before her imagination ! the 
murmur of the water, the hum of bees, the mountains in the distance, 
the bright sunshine over all, glorifying even the brown outlying huts 
beyond the straggling town ! “ What a compensation for so miser- 

able an existence that nature should have so suddenly developed 
powers of imagination in that poor child, that she could conjure up 
among the gray rocks above the Gave such a vision of loveliness as 
the Apparition they described ! It is a pretty fable, or a poem filled 
with all the elements of mystery and fairyland. But it is absurd in 
fact, and yet it has kindled into a flame the imagination, not of the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


315 


ignorant, but of the intelligent and the learned, whose knowledge of 
philosophy should teach them the emptiness of such illusions. But 
they call it faith ! Ah, yes ! faith, which is of itself something in- 
comprehensible to those who admit its existence.” 

Natalie rose up, and going to the window, parted the curtains and 
looked out. There was a rack of black clouds driving sullenly 
across the sky ; presently there was a wide rift in them, between 
the ragged, grotesque edges of which she saw, far up, as into infinity, 
the purple-blue heavens spangled with stars. 

“ Would that I might fathom it, or that science might pierce it ! 
then I should know all — or nothing. What is known falls far short of 
assuaging the intolerable thirst of the mind. Beyond our own system 
all is theory ; they talk of suns, and moons, and planets more splendid 
than aught that can be conceived, but have they seen and measured 
them ? And in the unattainable depths yet far beyond these, they can 
see nothing except a dim white radiance which they call nebulae, or 
a flicker of more distant splendors moving in superb order nearer 
the center of the universe. This is what they say ; but do they 
know it ? Have they told who or what this center is ? No ; they 
can only generalize, and speculate, and get mystified in their tech- 
nical calculations ; but they believe and write down in books what they 
call their discoveries, and the sum of it all is that they are yet in the 
dark as to the central truth . Their telescopes and all the appliances 
of science fail them here ; and, like Icarius, their aspirations, baffled 
and defeated, fall back in ignoble rout to the earth. Oh ! to know 
what is there above, beyond all ! Oh ! to be out of the dark of be- 
wildering theories into something certain upon which one’s feet may 
be firmly planted ! Creeds, like the Schools, dogmatize, but prove 
nothing. Some of their fables are sublime, and the working out of 
their simple beliefs often leads to grand results ; but how can they 
be sure of that which no man has ever yet returned to tell ? From 
the complex order and the brilliant phenomena of the heavens down 
to a little living blade of grass, they look up with wide, ignorant eyes, 
and can only say : 4 It is God, the beginning and end of all things ; the 
creating, the governing, and the sustaining power of the universe ! ’ 
But how do they know ? By faith, they answer ; and they call this 
Being, the All-Father 1 the Just ! the Merciful ! If this is true, why 


3 16 


TANGLED PA THS. 


has He so smitten me ? Why does He create savage beasts in hu- 
man form to tear the innocent? Ah, there's no help, no help!" 
exclaimed Natalie, beating her breast, as she turned from the win- 
dow and sunk down upon the floor, covering her face with her hands. 

No help indeed ! human reason had no help for her; neither the 
subtleties of classic or modern philosophy — not even all that she had 
faithfully read of the divinely instituted Faith and organization of 
the Catholic Church — read, won by its workings, in the beautiful 
lives around her, in the desperate hope of finding peace ; material- 
ism held her mind in thrall, her higher faculties were perverted by 
pride of intellect, which, like a “ great stone, sealed the sepulchre" 
in which her soul, swathed in the accidents of birth and education, 
and the habits of mind in which she had been trained, was entomb- 
ed. Would ever an angel of God come and liberate her from her 
bonds and the darkness of her prison house ? Such things, by 
God’s mercy, do sometimes come to pass. 

“ Ah, if it be true, all that they tell of thee ! ” she cried, press- 
ing the medal of Our Lady of Dolors to her breast, “ why dost 
thou not pity me ? Thou wert human, and shouldst know how to 
pity a woman wounded like thyself ! But — mad folly ! — how can a 
dead woman help me after all these ages ! But thou wert a brave 
woman, Mary, a 4 valiant woman,’ and thy courage under the bitter- 
est griefs the human heart can know, and live, is worthy of imita- 
tion ; and for this, and thy sorrow, I venerate thee ! ” 

Oh, cruel nature ! Oh, ingenious mechanism of torture ! in which 
every integument, fiber, nerve, and even the marrow of the bones, 
can be thrilled and scorched with the agony of wrong and loss, 
making the thought of annihilation sweet until the frenzy subsides 
and the life within revolts at the blotting out of being, and feels that 
even hell were better, with life, than nothingness ! 

“ And now, and now — ” Natalie arose to her feet and stretched 
out her arms in the dark as she gazed through the window toward 
the north, where the stars and black clouds seemed to be wrestling 
together in the far-off depths : “ if I am never to see thee again, my 
child, I vow for thy sake to save the pure white life of this girl from 
the evil power that has wrecked mine ; then — if there be a God — 
the reward be thine." 


TANGLED PA THS. 


317 


Natalie never wept ; the fountains of her tears were sealed, as by 
ice ; but a cold sweat beaded her forehead, and rolled over her face 
like a torrent of tears ; her beautiful hair was drenched ; her hands 
were marble cold. What she had passed through in this lonely hour 
was one of the dark passages that sometimes came to her and swept 
over her like a flood ; but on this occasion there was an intensity 
smouldering under the passion of her anguish, produced by the 
scarcely defined idea that her enemy, from whom she had been hid- 
ing and flying year after year, was threatening her from some direc- 
tion, and that this very Count Succolov was he. But she, having felt 
no interest in him, although his name had grown familiar from the 
frequent mention of it in her presence by one and another, had not 
even seen him. What was he to her? Nothing more than a name, 
until once she heard Baste describing him to John. Something 
caught her attention ; and no hunted deer, hiding in covert from the 
hounds upon her track, ever listened with keener intensity for the 
first distant echo of their approach, than Natalie now did to every 
word that dropped from the boy’s lips. Then the vague unrest she 
had felt for weeks began to take shape, for she remembered the 
kingly form, the suberb eyes, the power expressed in the dark, square 
outline of the face, the low, pleasant voice that Baste was describ- 
ing — the handsome demon who had trampled her heart in the dust, 
bereft her of her child, and pursued her like an evil phantom ever 
since. And yet, after all, it might not be Andrea Douskoi, her hus- 
band ; but another, bearing an accidental likeness to him. But she 
would see. 


CHAPTER III. 


“They have not come yet ! I wonder where they can be ? It 
is very thoughtless of them to stay out so late/’ said Mrs. Waite, 
one evening, as she came into the play-room, and took her usual 
seat by John, to whom Natalie had been reading aloud. There was 
an anxious ring in her voice, and the usual calm of her gentle face 
was disturbed. 

“ It is only nine o’clock, mother; and they are not babies, that 
they can’t find their way home this bright moonlight night,” an- 
swered John. 

“ Yes, under ordinary circumstances I should feel no alarm ; but 
the city is swarming with strange people, brought here by the ex- 
citement of the times : dreadful, scowling, wicked faces meet one 
at every turn, looking as if impatient for an opportunity for crime.” 

“ There they are now, tramping up the side steps, all their legs 
safe, anyhow ! ” said John, much relieved, although he had pre- 
tended to feel no uneasiness about Con and Baste. 

Sure enough it was them, their cheeks glowing, their eyes bright 
under their frowsy hair, which the wind had tossed in wild confusion 
around their faces. 

“ Why stands ‘ each particular hair on end, like the quills of the 
fretted porcupine?’” spouted John, in tones that he meant to be 
ghostly. 

The boys made no reply ; they slung their caps and overcoats 
upon a chair, and went straight to their mother, a half smile upon 
their lips and a twinkle in their eyes, as if they expected a lecture, 
but did not altogether deserve one. 

“ Where have you been, boys ? ” she asked, not withholding the 
kiss they sought. 

“ Nowhere but over into Virginia, mother. Count Succolov took 
us; he walks over there every evening for exercise,” said Con. 

“ And it was beautiful on the Long Bridge, mother ; but the rea- 
(3i8) 


TANGLED PA 77/S. 


319 


son why we are so late, is : when we started home, the fellows had 
lifted the draw to let a vessel through, and we had to wait until 
they lowered it.” 

“ I didn’t mind waiting, for the wind was blowing big guns, and 
the river was full of white-caps that were chasing each other like 
kittens after a mouse in the moonshine ; only I was afraid you’d be 
uneasy,” said Con. 

“But how is it that you happened to go with Count Suc- 
colov ? ” 

“ We went, Baste and I, to look at some troops landing ; and we 
met him at the landing, where he was watching them, and writing 
things — maybe he was sketching — in a little book. Then he in- 
vited us to take a little stroll with him, when there was nothing 
more to be seen. That’s all, mother.” 

“ Is that his idea of a stroll?” inquired John, cynically. 

“Oh, he don’t mind; you just ought to see him striding along! 
I thought of the giant with seven-league boots ! ” laughed Baste. 
“ And the way he got up and down those hills between the bridge 
and Arlington — whew ! ” 

“ I was tired,” Con frankly admitted ; “ but Baste and I had a 
good rest upon a stump, while the Count went to talk with two gen- 
tlemen who came riding along.” 

“ Don’t go so far again, my boys ; the times are too much troub- 
led for you to be anywhere except in your own house, after dark,” 
said Mrs. Waite, assured that she had heard the whole truth. 

“Not with the Count ! Just listen, Natalie ! She doesn’t know 
how jolly it is when he’s along, does she ! ” 

“ With no one. Remember now, I positively require you both 
to be in by dusk. Run down ^.nd get your supper, which Uncle 
Tom has kept warm for you. I wish,” added Mrs. Waite — after 
the boys, nothing loth, had rushed off to satisfy their hunger — “ that 
Count Succolov would not notice my boys so much ; they are per- 
fectly infatuated with him, and he seems to be quite their oracle. I 
know nothing about his principles, nor how he may affect them. I 
don’t know him at all. Did you ever see him, Natalie ?” 

“ I have not seen him, madame,” replied Natalie, who shrank as 
from a blow, at the possible untruth she was uttering. But she had 


320 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


not seen him — in Washington — and, after all, she might be mis- 
taken. 

“ I suppose I should have met him at my brother’s, if I ever went 
there when they have fashionable company ; but he is only a name 
to me ; an unknown being, who will, I fear, bring dole to one I 
dearly love,” said Mrs. Waite, thoughtfully. 

“To Sybil?” 

“Yes; he is paying her great attention, and Mrs. Weston con- 
siders him a brilliant match, so if he has any serious intentions, he 
will lack no encouragement from her.” Mrs. Waite rarely referred 
to family affairs in her intercourse with Natalie, and why she had 
done so now, with a dash of bitterness in what she said, she could 
not tell ; she felt that it was not only an indiscretion, but savored 
also of uncharitableness. 

However, Natalie made no reply ; and Mrs. Waite hoped that 
what she said had passed unnoticed ; but although silent, Natalie’s 
fevered thoughts were busy. “ Ah, it will be easy now ; he crosses 
the Long Bridge to the Virginia shore and back, every evening — 
for exercise. Baste says ; but it is not for that — if it is he whom I 
think, he is plotting. I will satisfy myself to-morrow ; this suspense 
must be ended before it is too late to save the innocent,” were the 
thoughts that ran through her mind. She pretended to be reading, 
while John was telling his mother that it was reported the gentleman 
whose school Baste and Con attended, was going South. That 
meant the breaking up of the school in the very midst of its suc- 
cess and prosperity. What would become of her two lads, just at 
a time of all others when they needed firm, wholesome restraint ? 
This piece of news quite disturbed Mrs. Waite, who could only 
hope that the report was groundless. 

Natalie could not carry out her purpose the next day, as she had 
intended, nor the next, nor the day after, for a rain-storm had set in 
which sent down such persistent torrents that it seemed like a mir- 
acle to think it would ever cease. 

About this time the scenes in Congress and out of it beggar de- 
scription ; the public pulse was at fever heat ; Washington swarmed 
with men from every quarter — loyal men, plotters, spies, and those 
who lay in wait to see how the public distress could be turned to 


TANGLED PA THS. 


321 


their own profit. The Government Departments were filled with 
disloyal persons, who made use of their position to betray every- 
thing to the Southern party, which they knew would cripple the 
Government. Words were daily spoken in Congress which in any 
other nationality under the sun would have caused those who uttered 
them to be put under arrest for treason ; officers of the regular army 
and navy were constantly resigning to go South, and went openly, 
without hindrance, although several of the States had already 
broken the Federal compact by seceding and putting themselves 
in armed antagonism to the Government. All this added fuel to 
the flame, which the pretended Peace Congress, that was then in 
session in the city, failed to assuage, for it soon became apparent 
that on the part of the Southern delegates it was simply a pretext 
to gain time and information, and perfect their gigantic plans of a 
rebellion which they had then every reason to believe — so well and 
long prepared were they — would succeed in the speedy destruction 
of a free and beneficent Government. 

This audacity of the rebel movement, the bitterness, dread, and 
fury engendered on both sides, was indescribable. Mr. Weston felt 
the impending crisis disastrously in his business ; every new phase 
of the Southern movement crumbled his resources like sands bitten 
away from the shore by tempestuous waves ; he was being stripped 
piecemeal of the sordid earthly treasures for which he had bartered 
the golden. days of his youth and of his prime; he had labored for 
none other, and he had naught upon which to lean, now that the 
dark days were drawing near. But he kept his own counsel, and 
bore up bravely ; no one would suffer by his losses ; he had never 
taken deposits for investment ; his speculations were individual ; he 
had even withdrawn Mrs. Weston’s fortune from his house, and de- 
posited it in a New York bank. It was not a large fortune, but yet 
it would be sufficient for her, should he lose all. He redoubled his 
business vigilance, guarded his resources, and contracted his opera- 
tions into compact limits, like a skillful seaman who takes in sail 
and orders all things for the approaching storm. He might weather 
it without bankruptcy, yet not without heavy loss at the best ; but 
above all, he would spare no sacrifice for the preservation of his 
honor. 

14* 


322 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ It will come, it is inevitable,” said Mr. Weston one day after 
dinner, as he sat with Count Succolov over the wine, and the con- 
versation turned on the so-called Peace Congress, from whose delib- 
erations the short-sighted hoped so much. “ No efforts, however 
honest, can avert a war between the two sections now, a war, not 
for the suppression of slavery alone, which many suppose to be the 
primary object, but a revolution to abolish State sovereignty , that 
disintegrating power which by a fatal mistake of the framers of the 
Constitution gives right to secession, and places the safety of the 
Federal compact at the mercy of separate States.” 

“It is not negro slavery, then?” observed the Count, with keen 
interest. 

“ Ostensibly it is, but the real issue will be for the preservation, 
on one side, and its destruction on the other, of State sovereignty. 
This abolished, and a strong Central Government established, the 
slaves could be emancipated by an act of the National Council, and 
a burning disgrace to what is called a free republic wiped off with- 
out bloodshed.” 

“ I see,” said Count Succolov, crushing an English walnut between 
his fingers as if it had been an egg-shell, and tossing the fragments 
into his plate. “ I have been thinking that if the war breaks out 
before I leave the country, I would volunteer my services ; that is, 
if it will be possible for a foreigner to get an officer’s commission. 
I had a military education ; and the animus of this struggle makes 
it worth fighting for.” 

“ If you really mean what you say, there will be no difficulty 
about getting a commission, I imagine,” said Mr. Weston, with a 
flush of pleasure in his face, for the generous sentiments of the 
Count touched the loyal chord of his heart. “ But it is a matter to 
be gravely considered.” 

“An impulse tending to the preservation of a free Government 
needs no argument or consideration. The cause of human liberty 
is the world’s cause. I do not understand the State sovereignty 
question, but I do the abolition of slavery ; so if in fighting for one, 
a blow is struck at both, and the fetters of a race broken, I ask no 
questions, and am ready, eager to act.” There was something that 
was almost superb in the man’s swarthy visage as he spoke ; his 


TANGLED PA THS. 


323 


eyes shone, while all that was left of the nobler part of his nature 
arose to a fine enthusiasm, which glowed in his countenance, and 
expanded his form, as pushing back his chair, he stood towering 
like a heroic ideal before Mr. Weston, who regarded him with 
secret admiration. 

“ I will introduce } r ou to-morrow, Count,” said Mr. Weston, in 
his usual grave tone, “ to certain friends of mine who control the 
military appointments, and I think I am safe in assuring you of their 
favorable action. In the new organization of the army, they will 
need men to command the raw troops who know something of mili- 
tary science.” Never had he felt such friendship and admiration 
for this singularly accomplished man, who, on their first meeting, 
had agreeably impressed him, and who now could not have found a 
readier and surer way to his entire confidence than by the senti- 
ments he had just expressed. A foreigner of rank and wealth, what 
had he to gain by periling his life in the approaching conflict ? he 
could only be actuated by the noblest motives and the most elevated 
sentiments. 

Mr. Weston sat alone in his library after his guest had taken 
leave, smoking and thinking, determined to take steps the very 
next day toward securing the command of a regiment for him. 
From this, his thoughts recurred with a certain degree of pleasure 
to hints which his wife had now and then thrown out, of Count Suc- 
colov’s unmistakable admiration for Sybil, and he only hoped that it 
might prove something more than a passing fancy, determined, if it 
should be, not to withhold his consent to a match which he conceived 
to be not only suitable, but brilliant for her. 

“ I may not live to see the end of this war,” he mused ; “ what 
with my business difficulties daily accumulating, and the threatened 
destruction of political and civil order, my head feels strangely at 
times ; I find my hands and feet often benumbed ; I may be at- 
tacked by sudden paralysis at my desk or in the street, and it will 
be a comfort to me to know that Sybil — the nearest and dearest of 
all the living to my heart — is the wife of a brave, noble man, so 
worthy of her as Count Succolov. I would prefer her marrying an 
American ; but a man who is willing to die for the liberties of a 
country earns a birthright to the best it can give.” 


324 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


It came to pass that Count Succolov, with the aid of Mr. Weston’s 
influence, had no difficulty, only a little delay, in getting the favor 
he craved ; he was to have command of a volunteer regiment, so 
soon as hostilities should actually commence ; his commission was 
made out in due form, and only awaited the signature of the Presi- 
dent and the Secretary of War to invest him with the rank of 
Colonel in the United States Army. 

This affair brought the Count in more intimate relations than ever 
with Mr. Weston’s family, which quite delighted Mrs. Weston, who 
observed daily signs in his unconcealed yet delicately-shown devo- 
tion to Sybil of a speedy fulfillment of her ambitious hopes ; but she 
was too adroit a tactician not to let things, now that they were 
running in the right groove, alone ; she would, however, keep a 
vigilant eye upon them, she promised herself, and come to the 
rescue if needed. Meanwhile she whispered a great many things in 
her husband’s ear which strengthened the mistaken impressions 
which possessed his mind, and which, nevertheless, it gave him 
pleasure to cherish, without investigation. 

The days and weeks crowded with history, and an undertone of 
mourning and prayer, like a miserere , sped on. Natalie had not yet 
succeeded in catching a glimpse of the face she desired yet dreaded 
to see ; her strict seclusion accounted for this in part ; and because 
having been twice to the Long Bridge to watch for Count Succolov, 
and missed seeing him, she thought perhaps he had given up his 
walks there, and did not think it would be prudent to make any 
inquiries of the boys. But she heard them tell their mother one 
evening with great glee that he was now a Colonel in the United 
States Army ; they had seen him in his new uniform, with their own 
eyes, upon a big black horse, and the horse was named “ Satan.” 

“I hope that horse won’t fly off with him,” said John, in gruff 
tones. “ I suppose he don’t take such long walks now ?” 

“Yes, he does ; he has to walk for his health, he says,” answered 
Con. 

“ He looks delicate,” said John. 

“ And he likes the Long Bridge best of all,” added Baste. 

Natalie was glad to learn that there was yet a chance left of 
meeting him face to face at a place then so unfrequented as the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


3^5 


Long Bridge, which stretches across the Potomac from South Wash- 
ington to the Virginia shore ; a long, dilapidated structure, part 
causeway, part framework, with a draw over the channel for the 
convenience of vessel.s going up or down the river from the old port 
of Georgetown and the Capital. In case her suspicions were cor- 
rect, she wished her interview with the destroyer of her happiness to 
be without witnesses ; if he should prove, as she hoped he might, 
to be a stranger, then he was nothing to her. Natalie’s eyes, dilated, 
and glittering with the internal fever that was preying upon her, 
were the only signs that betrayed the bitter unrest of her heart. 
Mrs. Waite observed their unnatural brightness, and noticed that her 
face, always fair, grew day by day more like Parian marble, and also 
that at the slightest sound she turned her head with an alert, quick 
movement, as if expecting some one ; and, fearing that she was 
threatened with serious illness, questioned her. But Natalie assured 
her that she was perfectly well, with which her friend had to appear 
satisfied. 

<c I will wait,” mused Natalie, as she watched the gray dawn float- 
ing like a spectre through her windows one morning, after a sleep- 
less night of mental torture, such as may be imagined one so placed, 
without a single ray of supernatural hope to strengthen them or light 
up their gloom, would have. “ I will wait ; the engagement is not 
yet announced. When I hear from the family that Sybil Weston 
and this man are betrothed, when I hear that , I will see him and 
satisfy myself, if I have to seek him there in her father’s house.” 
And Natalie waited, like a leopard robbed of her young, crouching in 
her lair, hidden from pursuit, ready at a moment’s warning to spring 
upon him who had ruthlessly despoiled her. 

Seeing that affairs were tending in the hoped-for direction, and 
being very much occupied with the political intrigues of her clique, 
Mrs. Weston relaxed her demands on her step-daughter’s time for 
“ social duties,” as she liked to call her unreasonable devotion to the 
tyrannical exactions of fashionable life, which allowed Sybil many 
more opportunities for the practice of devout exercises, intercourse 
with her aunt’s family, and certain little benevolent plans of her 
own, than she had scarcely dared to hope for. 

One day Mr. Weston came home about noon — a most unusual 


326 


TANGLED PATHS. 


.1 

hour for him, as he made it a rule never to leave the bank until it 
closed — and went immediately into his library. Shortly afterward 
he rang his bell, to inquire if his daughter was in. Upon learn- 
ing that she was, he sent her word that he wished to speak 
with her. 

Sybil had been busy for an hour or two copying Mrs. Hunter’s 
office work, she being yet too ill to undertake it, and felt 
happy in the consciousness that she was of some actual use in the 
world at last, and thrice happy in the serene peacefulness that her 
Communion of the morning had left with her a peace that throws 
its radiance over the faithful soul, as the rainbow sheds its bright- 
ness upon the clouds when the sun retires toward the pavilions of 
his glory to hide himself for a season from mortal gaze. 

“ I hope papa is not sick?” she inquired, a sudden fear present- 
ing itself, from the unusual event of his being at home at so early an 
hour. 

“ No, indeed, little Missis. He sick ! He never was sick sence 
he was born ; but I ’speck lie’s lonesome like, an’ wants somebody 
to say a word to him ; it’s awful bein’ all alone in a great room 
with nothin’ but cheers, an’ books, an’ walls a-starin’ at you,” an- 
swered Peter, with a wise nod of his white head. 

“ I’ll come directly, Uncle Peter,” said Sybil, with a pleasant 
little laugh. “ I expect I shall get down before you.” 

“ The Lord bless her ! Always got a kind, pleasant word for 
everybody ! ” said the old servant, as he left the door. 

Sybil’s spiritual and physical existence were in fine accord to- 
day ; the very sense of life, of being, elevated her heart like a 
hymn of joy, and made perfect the harmonious sense of thankfulness 
within her. She never thought to analyze her mood ; she was only 
conscious of an unusual lightness of heart, an exuberance of con- 
tent. She waited just to dot an i and cross a t, then laid aside her 
pen and ran down-stairs, singing as she went. Her father was read- 
ing a foreign letter when she entered ; his brow was contracted, and 
there was a hard, stern expression in his face ; he looked up for an 
instant when he heard the rustle of her dress; an involuntary sigh 
escaped his lips, and a surge of color overspread his usually pale 
countenance. 


TANGLED PA THS. 327 

“ I will speak with you presently, my child ,” he said, returning 
to his letter. 

“ Do not hurry, papa ; I can wait,” she replied, as she half 
buried herself among the cushions of a deep, low chair, quite con- 
tent to wait her father’s pleasure, and watch with tender solicitude 
the look of care, and the lines of anxious thought so visible in his 
countenance. “ Riches,” she thought, “ must bring sharp trials. 
I fear that my father has troubles more weighty than we suppose, 
which he keeps all to himself ! Ah ! that I could in some way avert 
from him some, at least, of his perplexities ! But what can I do ? 
Nothing, except to try and soften them if they come, and allow no 
thoughtless, selfish act of mine to disturb him. Here in his own 
home he must, at least, find peace and tranquillity.” Ah, how little 
did she know the crucial test that was now so near ! 

Mr. Weston folded his letter, wrote a brief reply, addressed, 
sealed, and stamped the envelope in his usual calm, methodical way, 
and dropped it into his private mail, which would be presently called 
for by his confidential clerk to post. Then he got up and stood 
upon the rug, his hands behind him, and looked down, with some- 
thing of trouble and embarrassment in his countenance, at Sybil. 

“ You look as if there were no wars or rumors of war's in the air, 
Sybil ; it is refreshing to see one happy face,” he said, after a little. 

“ I do not understand politics, papa ; and the Peace Congress, 
joined to my own ignorance perhaps, makes me hopeful,” she 
answered, her bright face upraised to his. 

“ Better so until the worst comes. But, Sybil, I did not send for 
you to talk about the gloomy outlook now hanging over the country, 
but for something of more individual and happier import.” 

“,That is pleasant to hear, papa ; and if — whatever it may be — 
it will conduce to your happiness, it will enhance mine. But I con- 
fess to a little curiosity. What can it be ?” 

u That which I have to propose to you will conduce very much 
to my peace of mind, Sybil, if it meets no untoward opposition from 
yourself ; and in saying this I mean a great deal. But 4 beating 
around the bush’ is not my forte • I have no genius for it; my 
business habits are all against it ; only — only — one feels a natural 
repugnance to losing a child so dear as yourself.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


328 

“ Losing me, papa ! You are not going to lose me — never 
while we both live ! ” she answered, sitting upright, and wondering 
what he meant. 

“ Sybil ! ” he said, averting his eyes, and speaking in low, abrupt 
tones, “ Count Succolov was with me last evening, and makes you, 
through me, the offer of his hand and fortune, even though he is 
made well aware that in all probability he seeks a dowerless bride. 
In return, I gave him a favorable answer, assured that you could 
have no reasonable objection against accepting him.” 

“ Oh, papa ! ” she exclaimed, pale and bewildered, and scarcely 
able to speak for the dreadful surprise that had fallen like a bolt out 
of the clear sky upon her. 

“ Yes,” he continued, “ I had heard whispers of the Count’s pref- 
erence for you, and, watching narrowly, I remarked with pleasure 
that you did not repulse his attentions. Added to this, your name 
has been coupled with his as being engaged to him, which of itself, 
now that he has proposed, makes it desirable that you should ac- 
cept him. A reported engagement that has no foundation in fact 
rather compromises a lady, and no honorable man would, by frivolous 
attentions, for his own selfish amusement, subject a woman to an 
embarrassment of this sort ; there’s nothing of that in this case, and 
I congratulate you, my child, on the prospect of so honorable and 
brilliant a match.” 

“ Oh, father, there’s some dreadful mistake surely ! I have no 
desire to marry ; and as to Count Succolov ” — Sybil shuddered — 
“ it is impossible ! Dear father, let it be as it is ; let me live for 
your happiness. I desire nothing more. Indeed, I have never 
thought of marrying any one. Oh, my God ! ” she silently im- 
plored, “ assist and defend me ! ” 

“ You shall never be a nun, Sybil ! ” exclaimed Mr. Weston, in 
angry tones, not only astonished, but disappointed in expectations 
which his wife had been skillfully kindling, until he had imagined 
that his daughter was as tenderly interested in Count Succolov as he 
was in her ; and although he wished the alliance, it had been a 
wrench to his affection for her when at last he fully consented to 
what he had been led to believe would contribute to her happiness. 
With these impressions fully fixed in his mind, Mr. Weston imagined 


TANGLED PA THS. 


329 

that some girlish caprice had taken possession of Sybil ; and, unac 
customed to be trifled with, he felt angered beyond expression. 

“ I do not expect to be a nun, papa ; I — ” 

“ Whatever you may or may not expect, remember that my word 
has never been broken in my life, and I will not have it dishonored 
now by the caprices of a foolish, inexperienced girl. I know what 
is best for you. What empty promise was it you volunteered a few 
minutes ago to consent to 4 whatever would conduce to my peace 
of mind? 1 Very well. This marriage will do so, for a time is ap- 
proaching when it will be well for you to have a husband’s protec- 
tion, and now I command your obedience.” 

“ Give me time to think, papa,” she answered in almost inaudible 
accents, her face marble white, her heart faintly beating. . 

“You shall have a reasonable time to think. Ten days will suf- 
fice ; and I have no doubt but that you will think better of it. The 
surprise has doubtless thrown you off your balance, but I know 
that by insisting on your obedience I am securing your future hap- 
piness. Leave me now, and make it your duty to overcome your 
unreasonable repugnance to my wishes,” said Mr. Weston, touched, 
in spite of himself, by the pale sadness of Sybil’s face as she arose 
to leave him ; not with light, graceful steps, as she had entered 
his presence, her lissom figure erect and full of young, glad 
life ; but faltering and dizzy, her heart full of great grief, she left the 
library a changed being to the one who entered it a short hour ago. 
She left it with only one coherent idea, which was, that only help 
could come to her from above, and that every breath must be a 
prayer for deliverance. Oh ! such a sorrow ! Almighty God would 
surely look with pity upon her. Jesus and Mary, who knew all 
the pangs of human grief, would not turn away from her in this her 
hour of deep distress ! Thus was her faith above all, like the starlit 
heavens above the storm cloud ; but here was the present trial, with 
which she must grapple, and which bewildered and dazed her as she 
looked it in the face. If the man had only proposed to herself, there 
would have been no difficulty ; she would have rejected his offer in 
words so decisive that he must have accepted them as final. But her 
father, having viewed the subject in a manner that appeared to him 
to involve his honor, he had accepted Count Succolov’s offer 


330 


TANGLED PATHS. 


without consulting her, and now, having laid his commands upon 
her, what could she do ? Alas ! the splinters of Sybil’s flower- 
decked cross pierced with cruel hurt when she took it up ; so 
beautiful had it looked with sunshine and fragrance gilding it 
and floating around it, that she marveled at its weight, and the 
sharpness of the thorns, now that she bore it. Some such thoughts 
as these passed through her mind as she rested a few moments 
against a pillar on her way through the darkened drawing-room, to- 
ward the hall ; then, with swift, noiseless steps, as one who flies from 
pursuit, she reached her own room, bolted the door, and stood an in- 
stant, her face buried in her hands, an image of grief amidst the sur- 
rounding brightness. She could not think for the one overwhelm- 
ing idea that now filled her mind like a leaden cloud, repressing all 
mental activity ; she had no mother on whose bosom she could lay 
her head and find help and sympathy ; no friend near, whose counsel 
she could ask in so delicate a matter as this. No ! happen what 
might, she would bring no one between her father and herself ; how 
could she, after declaring her willingness to assent to whatever he 
might propose, if by so doing it would contribute to his peace of mind ? 
But they had given her time — ten days ; but whether the time were 
longer or shorter, there would be but one only result, and that, an 
unconquerable repugnance to a marriage from which every faculty 
of her pure nature shrunk. 

“Help thy child, O Blessed Lady of Perpetual Succor!” she 
whispered, sinking upon the floor before the gentle image of her 
who never fails to help those for whom her Son suffered, when out 
of the depths they cry unto her * whose heart was pierced by the 
wounds of His flesh, who was herself the sinless victim of the world’s 
transgressions, and a martyr of maternal grief; whose sorrows no 
other sorrows could be likened to. “ I have no refuge but in thy 
gracious protection ; turn then thy pitying eyes upon me, for thou 
knovvest my desire to consecrate my life in some fashion to thy 
service.” Sybil drew out her rosary, and in its touching devotions 
found calm, trust, and hope. Into this sanctuary those who sought 
the destruction of her peace could not enter, for who shall hinder 
the faithful soul from God ? 

I trust in Thy promises, O Thou who watcheth over Thy creat- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


331 


ures, and doth pity them as a father pities his children ; and I be- 
lieve and place my hope for deliverance front this strait in Thy 
eternal word,” she whispered, with streaming eyes. 

But Sybil could see no way, humanly speaking, out of the laby- 
rinth into which, it was now plain to her perceptions, she had been 
lured, and had no hope except to be led by Divine Providence from 
the evil days at hand ; hence, what better could she do than resign 
herself to the guidance of Heaven ? 

Mrs. Weston sent her maid to inquire if she were ready to go to 
the matinee dansante at the English Minister’s ; but she asked to be 
excused, and her step-mother went alone, rejoicing in the news of 
what she really thought was Sybil’s good fortune, which Mr. Weston 
had just imparted to her. She whispered confidentially to one and 
another of her fashionable friends that her step-daughter and Count 
Succolov were engaged, assured that every one in “ society ” would 
hear it before night, received their effusive congratulations with 
dignity, which, however, did not entirely suppress her exultation, but 
did not wait to hear the envyings and jealousies which she was too 
much a woman of the world not to know would follow. When she 
returned home, and was dressing for dinner, she sent to ask Sybil to 
come to her for a moment, then dismissed her maid. 

“ Did you send for me, mamma?” 

“ Ah ! come in, my dear ; let me congratulate you. Indeed if 
it were Edyth herself I could not feel more delighted at this brilliant 
match you are about making ! Ma belle Comptesse ! how prettily 
that sounds ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Weston, embracing Sybil with fervor. 
“ It is all over town ; everybody congratulated me, wherever I 
went ! ” 

ei There is a mistake, mamma. I have not accepted Count 
Succolov, if that is what you mean,” she answered, in low 
tones. 

“ But it is fixed, darling, all the same ; your father told me so, 
you little prude ! ” said Mrs. Weston, with a triumphant sparkle in 
her eyes. 

“My father has given me time to consider the matter, mamma, 
and I do not wish it to be taken so entirely for granted that it will 
end as you imagine.” 


332 


TANGLED PA THS. 


iC Absurd ! I tell yon, Sybil, you do not know your father ; if he 
is opposed in anything he is like a rock.” 

“ Oh, then, mamma, will you not help to save me if I tell you 
that to marry this man will ruin my happiness for life ? ” she 
pleaded. 

“ No, my dear ; I love you very much, but I should really scruple 
to encourage your sentimental nonsense. And I must tell you an- 
other thing : Dr. Browne told me only yesterday that your father’s 
health is in so critical a state that any excitement or opposition might 
bring on an attack of paralysis. He has set his heart on this affair, 
and I shall hold you answerable for his life if by your unreasonable 
obstinacy you oppose his wishes,” said Mrs. Weston, sharply. 

“ Is my father sick ? I thought he was in perfect health ! ” 
said Sybil, into whose heart this new anxiety entered like a sud- 
den pain. 

“ Perfect health ! How can he be in perfect health at such a 
time as this ? He has lost millions already, and the effort he makes 
to save himself prevents his sleeping. Of course if he don’t go 
South he’s a ruined man. There, prosperity, dignities, and even a 
title of nobility, await him ; here, nothing but dishonor and ruin.” 

“ My father may be ruined by events, but his ruin will never be 
coupled with dishonor, I am sure,” answered Sybil, with spirit. 

“ You know nothing about it, Sybil, and I won’t discuss the ques- 
tion with you. It is for you, however, to do nothing to irritate your 
papa ; his home is now his only comfort, and if his peace is dis- 
turbed in it, with all that is pressing upon him outside, he’ll be in 
his grave in less than three months. Besides, your Catechism 
teaches you that obedience is better than sacrifice.” 

Sybil felt completely hemmed in by this new complication. It 
wrung her affectionate heart to think of how her father was battling 
single-handed against events which he could neither control nor avert, 
which threatened to overwhelm him with ruin and destroy his health. 
Alas ! how cruel was the thought that in all probability she who 
loved him so tenderly that she would be willing to give her life for 
him, would pour the drop into his cup that would overflow it, by her 
refusal to marry as he wished her to ! It was a fearful ordeal for 
this pure-minded, inexperienced girl to pass. She felt that she was 


TANGLED PATHS . 


333 


in a difficult strait, from which Divine Providence could alone de- 
liver her. “It is no doubt my duty/’ she thought, when once more 
alone in her sanctuary, “ at least to consider this matter dispassion- 
ately, and then my father, when he sees how impossible it is for me 
to yield, will perhaps relent. Oh, the very thought of Count Suc- 
colov makes me shudder ! Help me, O my God ! that I may do 
right.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Sybil was thankful for one thing. In her first interview with 
Count Succolov, the few words she said in reply to his protestations 
conveyed to him the distinct understanding that it was obedience 
and not inclination which had induced her to give his offer a mo- 
ment’s consideration. She would not have been Sybil without this 
frank simplicity, but a fraud worthy only of contempt. Like Ithu- 
riel’s spear, the truth which penetrated through the hard convention- 
ality of the man’s nature made him wince, and reddened his swarthy 
face ; but, with infinite tact, he expressed no disappointment, and 
declared his willingness to trust to time and his unceasing devotion 
to win a heart which he hoped was withheld from him only by 
maidenly reserve. He spoke with dignity ; and, as if he would 
spare her all further embarrassment, withdrew. And that which she 
was thankful for was that he did not seek to obtrude himself upon 
her after this. He came and went as usual, but except that he 
claimed the privilege of escorting her step-mother and herself every- 
where, and never lost sight of her wherever they might be together, 
he offered none of the little familiarities of an accepted lover — 
which he was not really — for he knew that he was under probation ; 
and although he assured himself of winning her eventually, his 
vanity and self-love were piqued to the endeavor to win her a will- 
ing bride ; he did not, therefore, fail to use all his arts of pleasing, a 
science in which he, as a man of the world, was too well versed, he 
imagined, to be baffled by a weak, sentimental girl, whose ideas had 
been nurtured in the seclusion of a convent. He showed, out- 
wardly, the greatest deference to Sybil’s religious sentiments, even 
going so far as to attend Mass at St. Mark’s regularly on Sundays. 
What, then, was there in this man that was revolting? 

She did not know. Everything that she had seen and heard of 
him was in his favor. Accomplished, highly cultured, of fine pres- 
ence and faultless manner, all that Count Succolov seemed to need 
( 334 ) 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


335 


was Faith — of which he professed to feel the need — to make him a 
perfect man. But her repugnance could not be overcome, as ir- 
rational as it seemed to be. He had even told her that, “ world 
weary, he would be most glad to bring all his erratic, crude opinions 
into subjection to the Catholic Church if it could be proved to him 
to be all that was claimed.” This avowal should have won Sybil’s 
higher sympathies, and did, but nothing more, although she offered 
her pure prayers for his conversion, as she would have done for any 
other soul astray from the Faith. 

One day, returning from a tiresome round of fashionable calls, 
Sybil requested her step mother to let the carriage stop a moment 
at St. Mark’s, that she might go in. “ I can’t imagine what in 
the world you can find to do so much praying over,” laughed Mrs. 
Weston, as she pulled the check-string ; “ but don’t stay late, for we 
have company to dinner this evening, and you will not have time 
to make a pretty toilette.” 

“ I will be in time, mamma,” she replied, closing the carriage 
door. 

“ It seems to me that the girl is getting thin and pale, and she 
really smiles like a martyr,” thought Mrs. Weston, as she drove off. 

Ah, the silent majesty of the Sanctuary, how beautiful and rest- 
ful it is ! How quickly before that Presence throned within the 
Holy of Holies does the passion wave of life grow calm ! Into 
what insignificance do all the vexations of time dwindle in the con- 
templation of a Mystery that fills eternity with wonder, and yet 
how sweetly does it condescend to dry the tear upon the mourner’s 
cheek and bind up the broken heart by the “ still small voice” of 
its consolations ! To the human eye there is nothing there except 
outward forms of carven marble, the glitter of rich candelabras, and 
the tall wax tapers and flowers upon which the starlike twinkle of 
the Sanctuary lamp sheds its beams ; but to the eye of faith the veil 
is drawn aside and it beholds its Redeemer with countless radiant 
ones bending in mute adoration around Him, the heavenly guardians 
and warders of the earthly resting-place of Him who by a perpetual 
miracle from “the rising of the sun to the going down thereof” 
gives Himself to be the Food and the Guest of His creatures, with 
the promise of eternal life to all who receive Him worthily ! How 


336 


TANGLED PATHS. 


happy Sybil always was to escape from the uncongenial atmosphere 
of the world to this sacred solitude where nothing could come be- 
tween her soul and God, words can not describe, and only those 
who have experienced the same consolation can understand. She 
left the church, strengthened in the belief that Almighty God would 
defend her in the hour of adversity, and she confided herself with 
childlike trust to His providence, ready to await His will, knowing 
that “ His ways are not as the ways of men.” 

When she left the church she was surprised to find how late it 
was, and had need to hasten her steps, lest she would not get home 
in time to dress for dinner. 

There was snow and slush in the streets, and pedestrians on the 
sidewalks found difficulty in selecting footway. Sybil was jostled by 
groups of persons, some hurrying up, some down, toward their 
homes; daylight was failing, and the street-lamps were being lit, 
when Count Succolov joined her. Gentle, yet cold in her manner, as 
toward a stranger, Sybil walked by his side enduring the escort she 
could not avoid. As they approached a corner she observed a 
quaint-looking old woman, dressed in the half-peasant costume of 
some foreign nationality, leaning upon a crutched stick, under the 
gas-lamp, evidently awaiting the passing of several vehicles to cross 
the street ; at last the way is clear, she ventures from the curb stone, 
but when about half-way over, a pair of spirited horses attached to 
a carriage dash around the corner ; in another instant she would 
have been trampled under their hoofs and crushed under the wheels 
if Count Succolov with rapid stride had not caught her in his strong 
arm and swept her from the track of danger ; he called a cab, lifted 
the frightened old creature into it, thrust money into her hand, paid 
the cabman, and ordered him to take her wherever she wished to go. 

“That was a noble act, and for a poor old woman ! ” thought 
Sybil. 

There was a flush upon her cheeks, and a relenting in her heart 
toward the Count when he joined her again with some light remark 
about the advisability of old people remaining at home such weather 
as this. 

“ I hope,” he added, “ that you are not chilled by the wet pave- 
ment ? ” 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


337 


“ Oh, no ! even had I been, the sight of so humane an act would 
have warmed me,” she replied, with more unreserve than she had 
ever shown toward him. 

“ Oh, that was nothing ! A drayman would have done so all the 
same. She reminded me of my old Tartar nurse ; I almost thought 
it was her ghost ; I could not, for her sake, let the old creature be 
crunched under the horses’ feet,” he answered. 

“ Is that all? Yet the world loses nothing by a good act even 
when done for the sake of a memory. You must have loved your 
old nurse ? ” 

“I did,” he answered briefly, and changed the subject. 

Although Sybil, as the days went by, became more accustomed 
to the presence of Count Succolov as his intercourse with the family 
assumed a more intimate aspect, she found herself no nearer a will- 
ing consent to accept him as a lover than at the first. She re- 
frained from confiding her troubles to her aunt, fearing that it might 
disturb existing family relations, and Mrs. Waite did not ask her 
confidence for the same reason, but determined that when the right 
time came she would say all that was in her mind, and until then 
remain silent. 

Sybil, in her great need for some human help, unbosomed her- 
self to Father De Haes, who counseled patience, and obedience if 
there was nothing in the proposed alliance which would conflict 
with religious or moral principles; his opinions on such subjects 
were founded upon those of the Old World ; he had never been 
able to accustom himself to the reckless matrimonial customs preva- 
lent in the United States, where a passing or romantic fancy is too 
often the only motif for uniting two persons by an indissoluble and 
solemn contract which, oftener than not, after a brief experience, is 
outraged, then broken by an informal separation or a legal divorce. 
The courts were always full of such cases ; the newspapers teemed 
with the fatal results of miserably assorted marriages : the conse- 
quences of which were crime, madness, and suicide, to say nothing 
of their demoralizing influences upon the younger generations, who 
are too apt to be influenced by evil precedents. A true Christian 
union, even a prudent one, the good Father saw, was a rare event, 
and he firmly believed that in an affair of such momentous impor- 
15 


33 § 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


tance as marriage it was far better for young persons to be guided by 
the experience and prudence of parents or friends than by the il- 
lusory fancies of what the world calls love. There was nothing, he 
had ascertained, to object to in Count Succolov ; he was not an ad- 
venturer, but a man of ancient and princely lineage, whose family, 
rank, and wealth were indorsed by the French and Russian Minis- 
ters, and by his banker — a Russian himself, through whom his re- 
mittances and letters reached him — a gentleman of so exalted a 
character that his word was as much respected as another man’s 
oath ; and when, added to all this, he learned from Sybil herself 
that the Count had spoken seriously of entering the Church, the 
thought of gaining a soul, above all else, disposed him to the most 
favorable consideration of the subject, thereby showing that the 
holiest persons are sometimes misled in their judgment, which if 
right in one case may be altogether wrong in its application to 
another, so deceptive are appearances. Thus Sybil found no com- 
fort where she had confidently expected to do so. 

The first harsh words that had ever passed between Mr. Weston 
and Mrs. Waite were uttered the evening he called to see her to 
talk over “ Sybil’s engagement,” as it had got to be called in the 
family : no one ever knew what she had said to anger him, but that 
night Sybil was forbidden by her father, under pain of his serious 
displeasure, to go to her aunt’s again. This, as may be imagined, 
was a painful trial to her already grieved heart, but she obeyed, 
after writing an affectionate note to Mrs. Waite, which was blotted 
with tears, begging her to believe that although her father had, under 
some wrong impression, prohibited all intercourse between them for 
the present, her affection for herself and every member of her family 
would suffer no diminution, but rather be increased by absence and 
regret.' She threw into the envelope a handful of fresh violets, “for 
Natalie, with Sybil’s love,” hastily written on a strip of paper that 
she twisted around the stems. 

Mrs. Weston exulted. 

“ Now there’ll be no more meddling, and stuffing the girl’s head 
with sentimental notions. 1 am heartily glad things have turned out 
so,” she said, after the interdict had gone forth. 

Between the social and political excitements of the season, Mrs. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


339 


Weston’s nerves were strained to the utmost, and until she was 
“ made up” for the day by her drops and her French maid, she had 
the appearance of being a score of years beyond her actual age. 
Her relations with her husband at this time, notwithstanding the ex- 
ercise of her best tact to throw dust into his eyes, were not of the 
most harmonious kind ; her opinions he did not seek to control ; 
but the identification of herself with the intrigues of the Southern 
clique, whose sentiments and aims were utterly antagonistic to his 
own, displeased him highly, the more so as he discovered the part 
she was playing, by accident, and not by a frank avowal of her own. 
He told her in brief, sharp words that, as his wife, she must with- 
draw herself entirely and at once from all participation in the po- 
litical intrigues going on ; if she did not see fit to do so her fortune 
was at her disposal and she could betake herself where plots against 
the Government would not dishonor him. She promised to obey, 
and seemed to do so, but she was only more cautious, and was now 
looked upon by her political friends as a victim to their cause, 
which gave new zest to her Southern sympathies, and fresh delight 
to a disposition naturally inclined to intrigue. 

Her sleep was produced by the new narcotic, and her life was as 
artificial as her slumbers ; she had in the process of becoming a 
fashionable leader in “ society ” strangled and chilled the best im- 
pulses of her nature, and now she no longer approached the Sacra- 
ments, and only attended Mass on Sundays because she wished to 
appear well to certain persons of high position whose devotion to 
their faith led them thither. So does the world debase those, even of 
the true faith, who yield a too willing obedience to its precepts. But 
there were moments — sometimes they came in the darkness and 
solitude of night — when, like the voice of God in the Garden, the 
dread voice of Conscience sought her out, and made her tremble as 
Eve did after the great transgression, with unspeakable terror at the 
view of heir own faithlessness and its possible consequences; for sup- 
pose she should die suddenly, as so many did every day ? That 
thought of sudden death always horrified her, for it was her intention 
to die with due Christian decorum when her hour came — supposing it 
came, as she expected and hoped it might — when, having done with 
the world, she could make a general confession, keeping nothing 


340 


TANGLED PA THS. 


back ; receive Extreme Unction and the Holy Viaticum ; but alas ! 
she never took into consideration what would have become of 
the dispositions which by long and culpable neglect of the graces 
of God she had quenched, and which alone would give efficacy to 
these last Sacraments. Alas ! alas ! to whom has the world ever 
brought peace or happiness ? And when to its emptiness are added 
the stings of conscience, and the bitterness of remorse, what state 
is there on earth more miserable, or more symbolic of eternal de- 
spair ? But its bondage is cruel when once the soul has passed un- 
der the yoke, giving neither respite nor refreshment ; and then, 
when all that is best is withered by its baleful influences, hope itself 
is gone forever. 

Such examples are sad to contemplate, and we have by some im- 
pulse not to be controlled dwelt longer on Mrs. Weston’s interior 
faithlessness than we had intended ; but if it prove a word in sea- 
son to others like her, we shall not regret lingering on a theme as 
painful as it is unpleasant. And now we return to Sybil. 

A time came at last when there could be no longer delay in the 
decision required of her. Mr. Weston told his daughter that he 
would brook no further trifling ; that at Count Succolov’s earnest 
request he had prolonged the time he had given her for considera- 
tion, and she must be prepared on the following day to signify to 
him her acceptance of his proposal. There was no appeal when 
Mr. Weston laid down the law. He never came to a decision on 
any point without sufficiently good reasons to himself, and having 
once made up his mind, nothing had power to move him. In this 
case he believed that he was acting for Sybil’s best interests ; he 
had persuaded himself that he was, feeling assured that she was so 
inexperienced as to be incapable of judging for herself. 

How constantly and earnestly had she prayed, hoping that God 
in His mercy would bring her out of this fiery trial ; but there had 
come no sign of help; everything was drifting contrariwise; her 
communions, her tears, her rosaries appeared to be in vain, so 
far as the object of her devotions was concerned ; the Blessed and 
compassionate Lady of Perpetual Succor came not to her assist- 
ance ; but still she trusted on ; nothing could shake her trust, even 
when, weary and heart-worn by the conflict of her emotions, she 


TANGLED PATHS. 


341 

blindly and helplessly said to her father : “ Let it be as you wish, 
papa.” 

He drew her to his bosom, the first embrace she had ever re- 
ceived from him, kissed her, and said : “ God bless you, my child,” 
and appeared to be much moved by her acquiescence in his wishes. 
Then came congratulations from her step-mother, and Count Sue- 
colov received her from her father as his affianced bride ; but when 
he would, as his right, have saluted her chaste lips, Sybil drew back 
with white, averted face, her hands outstretched as if warding off 
something evil from her presence. The act was a natural and in- 
voluntary one, but it stung him, and, turning away with a light 
laugh which did not at all echo what was raging in his heart, he 
made some pretty speeches about maidenly timidity and the great 
charm that naivette and modesty had for a man whose intercourse 
with the world made him skeptical as to the reality of such quali- 
ties. Mrs. Weston would have liked to shake her, but fell in with 
the Count’s humor, and only remarked : “ Sybil can’t shake off her 
convent training all at once,” and no further notice was taken. 

Day after day Count Succolov brought the rarest and loveliest 
flowers, such as he knew she must admire for their symbolism of 
purity and innocence ; but she left them out on her window-sill at night 
to perish in the frost ; she could not offer them to the ever Blessed 
Virgin, feeling, somehow, that coming whence they did, they would 
pollute her shrine. She rejected his costly gifts; even the engage- 
ment ring he offered, with his princely crest in sapphires surrounded 
by priceless diamonds upon it, she gave back to him, saying : “ Per- 
haps later ; I have no right now ; your wife may wear it, not I ; ” 
by which he understood that she scrupled wearing it until after their 
marriage, and he constrained himself to appear content, vowing in 
his heart with a black oath that when the time came for him to have 
his own way he would humble her to his will or break her heart — 
a thing which he was perfectly capable of doing, as we shall pres- 
ently see. 

About this time a strange event happened. Mrs. Waite was 
spending the evening with her children in the play-room, enjoying 
their innocent cheerfulness, and making them more happy by her 
presence ; Natalie had withdrawn to her own room, unable, in her 


342 


TANGLED PATHS. 


state of mind, to endure the sounds of merriment or the sight of 
others’ happiness, and unwilling to dampen it by her cold silence, 
which might be construed into either disapproval or want of sym- 
pathy. 

“Whar’s Miss Natalie?” said Uncle Tom, suddenly showing his 
dusky face at the door ; “ a man has fotch her a letter ; an’ he 
talks gibberish ; I can’t understan’ the fust word he says, Missis ; 
an’ he’s waitin’ thar yet in the hall below.” 

“ Miss Natalie is in her room ; take the letter up at once, Uncle 
Tom,” said Mrs. Waite. 

“But, Missis, thar’s the man — a decent, ’spectable-looking man 
for a furriner — what’s to be done with him ?” 

“Set him on the mantel-piece,” said John, laughing. Baste and 
Con were both ready for the fray, but their mother was too quick 
for them. 

“ After you give Miss Natalie her letter, go back to this stranger 
and invite him to wait for her in the library ; it may be some one 
she would like to see,” answered Mrs. Waite, in her gentle yet de- 
cisive tones. “And yet there maybe a mistake: let me look at 
the letter, so as to avoid disturbing her, if there is. No! the ad- 
dress is all right ; even the number of my house, and the name of 
our street ; here, let her have it as quick as possible, and be sure 
to say that the person who brought it is waiting.” 

Tom disappeared, and the young folk resumed the enjoyments he 
had interrupted, and gave no further thought to the affair. 

The stranger, now ushered into the library, where there were 
lights and a fire, was a tall, tawny-haired, honest-faced German, 
whose blue, wide-open eyes indicated good perceptive faculties and 
intelligence, while his whole appearance gave one an idea of the 
most substantial respectability. After waiting some time, he heard 
footsteps in the hall, and Natalie came in, her face, as usual, pale 
and cold, except a slight contraction in her forehead which revealed 
a pain that she had not yet been able to master. She stood a mo- 
ment confronting the stranger, scanning his face with penetrating 
gaze as though she sought to read his very soul ; then, as if satis- 
fied, she placed in his hands an antique seal ring which her father 
had always worn, and which had been in his family ever since the 


TANGLED PATHS. 


343 


Spanish wars in Germany. Her visitor examined it critically, and 
returned it to her, saying : “ I am satisfied, madame ” — speaking 
in German. 

He then drew from his breast-pocket a package secured by three 
large official seals, which he placed in her hands. 

“ I do not know, madame, what this contains ; but my uncle, be- 
fore he died, commanded me to guard it vigilantly, and never, as I 
valued his blessing, to let it go out of my hands, nor rest until I 
found you, and placed it in yours. He gave me instructions also, 
madame, about the ring, by which he said I would know you with- 
out mistake. He received your letter just three weeks before his 
death, and it was the first tidings he had heard of you for several 
years. He thought, madame, that you were dead, and it quite 
broke him down ; but it was a great consolation to him to be as- 
sured that you were still living; ‘for now,’ he said, ‘justice will be 
done.’ Your letter, he informed me, gave him your address, ma- 
dame, and he got leave from the President of the old bank of Ham- 
burg, which he had served many years, and in which I am an under- 
clerk, for me to come to the United States on this business ; which 
was the more readily agreed to as just at that moment the directors 
were in want of a trusty messenger who would deliver in person some 
important papers to a banking-house in Washington city with which 
our bank has correspondence. The letter I sent up to you, ma- 
dame, my uncle wrote it, when he could scarcely hold a pen ; he was 
dying, and it was only his resolute will and his devotion to you that 
enabled him to perform so difficult a task.” 

Natalie lost no word of all this ; nature would not be held always 
in check, and her composure gave way. Clasping her hands to- 
gether so tightly that her finger-nails pierced her delicate flesh, she 
involuntarily exclaimed : 

“ Oh that I might weep but one tear ! Why are even tears, that 
the most wretched can shed, denied me ? The only friend I had on 
earth, dead, and yet I can shed no tear ! My son alive, but where ? ” 

These passionate words were spoken in Russian, and the stranger 
witnessed her grief without understanding the language by which it 
was expressed. By a strong wrench of her will, Natalie resumed 
her calm self-possession. 


344 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ 1 thank you,” she said, addressing her visitor in German, " for 
the faithful performance of your uncle’s last wishes and your own 
promise. I wish it were in my power to offer you a reward com- 
mensurate with the service you have done ; but though small, re- 
member that my gift is prompted by the deepest gratitude.” She 
would have placed a purse containing several gold eagles in his 
hand, but he drew back, and, while his face flushed crimson, he de- 
clined to receive it. 

“No, madame, pardon me,” he said. “ I have done nothing except 
my duty. I should offend the memory of my uncle by accepting a 
reward, and from you ! All that I desire is your thanks, and a line 
acknowledging the receipt of that package.” 

“ I could only expect this from a relative of Carl Shaeffer ! ” Na- 
talie replied, respecting the sturdy burgher spirit that refused her 
gold; then she turned to the table and wrote the acknowledgment 
he desired. “ A day may, however, come,” she added, as she gave it 
to him, a when I can show my gratitude without wounding your 
honorable sensibilities. When do you return ? ” 

“I shall get through my business here to-morrow morning, and 
take the afternoon train to reach New York in time for the out-going 
German steamer, madame. Shall I call for letters ? ” 

“No — Yes ! I will write to the president of the bank, who has 
now the management of my affairs. You have done me an inesti- 
mable service, for which I again thank you,” she replied, offering her 
hand, which the German held for a moment in his warm palm, won- 
dering if it would ever be colder when she was in her grave. In 
the wild, uncanny legends of his country he had heard of a woman 
who, centuries ago, had for some secret crime been cursed with 
dead hands , and thinking of her, he had almost shuddered when he 
felt the frozen coldness of Natalie’s. 

“ At what hour shall I call, madame ? ” 

“At any hour after 12 o’clock. Just send up the name of Carl 
Shaeffer.” 

“ That is my name, madame — ” 

“ It is a worthy name,” she answered, with a far-away look in her 
eyes, as if sad memories had taken form and become visible ; but 
recalling herself to the present, she said : “ The letter will be 


TANGLED PA THS. 345 

brought to you by the old servant who admitted you. I will say 
adieu now, with best wishes for your safe return home.” 

Left alone, Natalie thrust the package into her bosom, and after 
waiting a few moments to banish from her face any trace of emo- 
tion, and steady herself to her usual poise, she joined the family in 
the play-room. No one questioned her, nor did she volunteer any 
information as to her letter, or who had brought it ; but they were 
all glad to have her with them to direct some merry parlor games 
they were deeply interested in, but not quite sure of. And who, to 
have looked upon her, could have imagined that her heart was at 
that moment wrung by anguish which nearly frenzied her into cry- 
ing out with lamentation ? But why should these innocent hearts 
be deprived of a gratification they craved, because hers was broken ? 
So, stifling her woe, she, with kind, pleasant words, even with smiles, 
and swift and agile movements, initiated the children into the mys- 
teries of the games, and when they were in full career she slipped 
away up to her own room before they missed her. Once more alone, 
the bitter conflict of her spirit again had sway. Oh, how gladly and 
how swiftly she would have ended it, but for the work she had to do, 
and the one earthly hope that was left to torture her by delay ! for 
these two objects her life was worth something, and she would 
wait. She sat down at her table, turned up the jet of her reading- 
lamp, and again read the almost illegibly written letter she had that 
day received. It ran thus : 

“ Madame : — I shall very soon die. Dimitri is alive, I have seen 
him. He escaped from Russia after Fatiana died. She was true to 
you and to him, and gave him the iron casket containing the papers, 
the miniature, the gold coins, and the jewels. He came here to 
Hamburg in an American vessel, disguised as a sailor, and, obeying 
Fatiana’s instructions, he sought me. I introduced him to your 
father’s friend, Herr Stahlburg, the bank president, to whom he 
confided all. The papers found in the casket, its contents, and the 
account he gave of himself, added to all that I knew, and testified 
to on oath, were sufficient for his identification, for everything tallied 
with the knowledge Herr Stahlburg already had of your sorrowful 
history. Dimitri deposited the papers and jewels in the bank, keep- 
L5* 


TANGLED PA THS. 


346 

ing the money and your picture. I could not tell him where to 
seek you, his mother ; I could tell him nothing except that when I 
last heard from you, you were at a small town near the Pyrenees, in 
France, the name of which I could not recall. And he went away 
to seek you. Something tells me that his search will not be in vain. 
One week after, your letter dated Washington, D. C., United States 
of America, came to hand, but too late for him. Where he is now 
I know not. A few days, perhaps a few hours, and my life will 
close ; therefore, I send by my nephew — a trusty lad — your marriage 
certificates and other papers, Herr Stahlburg agreeing with me 'that 
you may have need of them in that strange land, where you have 
no friends. 

“ Dimitri has the features of your race ; there’s nothing of that dark, 
wicked face in his, except the square chin , cleft with a dimple ; and 
he inherits the other’s form and height ; he has the same easy move- 
ment in walking, the same erect, proud presence. This is all I can 
tell you of him. 

“ I die blessing thee, thou innocent victim of the crimes of a 
monster. Adieu. 

“Your faithful friend and servant, 

“Carl Shaffer.” 

Natalie laid the letter down and loosened her dress ; her heart 
was almost bursting, and the veins in her neck and temples stood 
out like whip-cords. If she could have wept as other women do un- 
der strange trials it would have relaxed the iron strain of her anguish ; 
but she had no tears, and being “ without God in the world,” is it 
any wonder then, that, desolate and stricken, she suffered only as 
those do who have no divine promises or hope to lean upon ? Great 
beaded drops of sweat drenched her white face, pitiable in the woe 
graven upon it, pitiable in the pathos of its human endurance. 

'“ Gone ! Gone ! Living, but beyond my reach ; where upon 
earth shall I find thee, my son ? ” she presently said, in low, moan- 
ing accents. “ If I could only clasp thee once to my breast, look 
one long, long look into thy eyes, how willingly would I die ! 
Thou,” she said, as, loosening the gold chain about her throat, she 
held up the medal and gazed upon it — “ thou hadst thy sorrows, but 


TANGLED PA THS. 


34 7 


thou also hadst thy Son, before death, after death ; and even now, it 
is a simple belief, thou reignest with Him ; but I, I am left desolate. 
If thou wert on earth thou wouldst help me I know, for I would 
come and kneel to thee because thou wast a human mother, a brave, 
tender mother, who suffered for no fault of thine — who would know 
how to pity one like me ! But, foolish heart ! be still ! Beat not so 
fiercely against thy bars ! What is that ? a whisper of hope that 
comes to delude me with a promise that I shall find my son ? Ah, 
can it be ? No ! no ! all is dark again ; dark ! ” 

The heart-broken woman closed her eyes, and by a strong effort 
of her will mastered her emotion. She broke the seals of the pack- 
age delivered to her that day ; it had fallen from her breast to the 
floor when she unfastened her dress to relieve the suffocating sensa- 
tions that oppressed her. One by one she examined the papers, 
every one of which laid bare the wounds of her bitter past ; they 
were all there in the same order as when she had consigned them to 
Fatiana’s care, fourteen years ago. A sudden thought suggested it- 
self that her boy had touched them, had read them, had perhaps 
wept over the sorrows of the mother he did not know, and had been 
moved to a sacred indignation by her wrongs ! Yes, she felt it must 
be so, and she covered the mildewed records with kisses, knowing 
that there was not a line or word therein over which his eyes had not 
passed. She refolded them, returned them to the envelope, which 
she re-sealed, and then hid them away in a secret compartment of 
her trunk. A sense of exultation now followed her previous anguish, 
for with these important papers in her possession she could baffle the 
wicked schemes of her husband without the dread of harming her 
child, who was free somewhere in the wide world, outside of Russia, 
and beyond the reach of his powerful family. She had not yet seen 
Count Succolov, and except that her fine feminine instincts made 
her very strongly suspect that he and Andrea Douskoi, her hus- 
band, were one and the same, she knew nothing with certainty. 
But she would find out the truth in time to prevent his ruining the 
life of Sybil Weston as he had ruined hers. Great preparations were 
in progress for this “ marriage in high life,” as announced by the 
papers — “ the most brilliant match ever known,” they said, “ in the 
annals of Washington society,” which was to take place on the 20th. 


348 


TANGLED PA THS. 


One short fortnight, then, was all that Natalie had in which to do 
her work. 

There was to be a grand ball at Senator Gwynn’ s, on the 3d ; and 
all the world, that is, every one who had claims to social distinction, 
were expected to be present. It was a dreary night ; a drenching 
mist pervaded the atmosphere, through which the street-lamps shed 
a ghostly light. Later a fog swept up from the river, bringing a pen- 
etrating chilliness with it. The wind soughed drearily, sobbing as if 
the world were weary. But the banquet-hall and the elegant draw- 
ing-rooms of Mrs. Gwynn were wreathed with flowers and glittered 
with lights ; elegant toilettes were being made in the various homes 
of the invited guests ; hearts beat high, and young eyes sparkled in 
anticipation of the festal delights now so near. The Gwynn s being 
of the faithful — i.e ., Southern sympathizers — Mrs. Weston was to be 
present, attended by Count Succolov ; Sybil was glad to be excused, 
as it was not en regie for one so near her wedding-day to appear on 
an occasion like this. The carriage awaited in front of Mr. Weston’s 
house, to convey his fashionable wife and his son-in-law elect to the 
scene of gayety. The carriage lamps were lit, and the gas-jets of 
the tall bronze lamps on each side of the hall entrance, although 
blazing, could do no more than form an aureole around the ground- 
glass globes, on account of the density of the fog. Beyond the 
faint radiance thrown out by the lamps, wrapped and hooded in a 
black cloak, a woman waited, sometimes walking slowly up and 
down, sometimes standing as if expecting some one or something. 
At last — 10 o’clock — the hall doors were thrown open, and Mrs. 
Weston, attended by Count Succolov, descended the steps and cross- 
ed the pavement to the carriage. Swiftly the dark, muffled figure 
drew near, standing on the curb, quite close to the horses’ heads, 
but no one observed her white, eager face peering through the fog. 
After handing Mrs. Weston into the carriage, Count Succolov came 
forward a step or two to give some order to the coachman ; his face 
was slightly upraised, and the sharp rays of one of the carriage lamps 
shone down through the cut crystal shade, full upon his features. 
It was enough. The woman glided away into the shadow ; she had 
got a full view of Count Succolov’s face — the betrothed husband 
of Sybil Weston — and all her worst fears were confirmed. Of 


TANGLED PA THS. 


349 


course this woman, waiting and watching there in the fog and drench- 
ing mist, was Natalie, and in Natalie you ere now recognize the un- 
fortunate Countess Olga Douskoi, whose sad story you learned some 
time back in the hut of the old Tartar woman, Fatiana, when Dim- 
itri perused the papers he had found in the buried casket by the light 
of the funeral tapers around her coffin. 

While the revels are going on at Senator Gwynn’s elegant man- 
sion, and Count Succolov is receiving the congratulations of those 
whose acquaintance with him authorizes their offering, Sybil Weston^ 
in her white cashmere robe de chambre , is kneeling before her ora- 
tory, offering with fervor the devotion of the Rosary— her fingers 
scarcely less white than the pearl beads that slipped through them 
— her prayers to the end that she may receive the grace of courage 
and submission to the divine will in her approaching marriage, from 
which she has now no hope of escape. Her face, pale and patient, 
over which tears from her half closed eyes slowly steal, is beautiful 
in its sorrow, and the shivering sighs that now and then involuntarily 
escape her lips, tell how deeply the trial she endures has wounded 
her. Like the noble young Roman virgin Agnes, this innocent girl 
desired no earthly love, and had secretly cherished the hope of con- 
secrating, at some future day, her life to heaven. But was she to be 
rejected for being unworthy ? Had she been acceptable to Christ 
as His virgin spouse, would He not have delivered her ? These 
were the questions of her soul ; but no answer came, no sign by 
which she might know; all was bare of consolation except the sense 
of resting upon the will of Him who is over all, and sees all. Lat- 
terly Sybil had suffered from attacks of faintness which shortened 
her breath and took away her strength for the time being ; why, then, 
should she repine, with a promise like this that the passion pain of 
her life would be brief, and that like a bird escaping from the net jof 
the fowler, she would find rest and peace ? Who can doubt that hope 
to be divine which lifts up the soul far above these earthly storms, 
or cradles it in an unshaken faith of God’s love, confiding with child- 
like trust in His holy will ? It is His infinite love that veils from 
us His designs in our regard ; it is to try and prove the faithful soul, 
giving to His creatures the merit of martyrdom, without its palm, 
that He withholds Himself from still small whispers of deliverance 


350 


TANGLED PA THS. 


when the “ floods pass over us,” until in His own time and way He 
leads us out of the darkness into the light. 

The day following the ball at Senator G wynn’s, Mrs. Waite and 
Natalie were alone for a few minutes, the boys having gone out with 
John to give him air, while Clara had got permission to run in to see 
a little friend of hers in the neighborhood who had the extreme de- 
light of possessing, at the will of her Maltese Tabby, five young 
kittens. 

“ Madame,” said Natalie, “ have I your permission to ask Baste 
to do something for me ? — something that I can not explain until 
after ? ” 

“ I think I may trust you, Natalie,” answered Mrs. Waite, with 
some surprise, “ not to ask my boys anything that I could possibly 
disapprove of.” 

Mrs. Waite remembered Natalie’s strange visitor, and their long 
interview, and how he had afterward called for a letter, which she 
had placed in Uncle Tom’s care to deliver to him, and how he had 
received it, and gone away without seeing her again ; she had 
felt disappointed at Natalie’s reticence on the subject, and also 
troubled about the mystery that thickened around her. She there- 
fore spoke in graver tones than usual, which Natalie was quick to 
notice. 

“ Oh, yes, madame, trust me ; confide in me ; it is nothing that 
can harm your boy ; but it is much, everything to me, and will pre- 
vent a crime,” she answered, with strange emotion. 

“ I do not understand, Natalie,” replied Mrs. Waite, with looks 
of concern ; “ but — yes — I trust you. I hope, though, that a day 
may soon come when you will ease your griefs by confiding them to 
one who would be a mother to you if you would allow it.” 

4< Ah, madame, have patience with me ! a time is not far off when 
you will know my sad story.” 

“ Whenever that time shall come, my heart is open to you, 
Natalie.” 

“ Thanks ! I shall not forget ! ” she replied, taking- Mrs. Waite’s 
hand and pressing it to her cheek. She then went to the play-room 
to waite for Baste, hoping that some cause or other might bring him 
in before the others ; which so happened, for he had run home to 


TANGLED PA THS. 


351 

get a warmer wrap for John, it having blown up cold. She laid her 
shapely hand upon the boy’s shoulder as he drew near, and told him 
she had something to say to him, something for his ear alone. Baste, 
proud to be taken into Natalie’s confidence, listened to the few brief 
words she said ; and, both glad and proud to be asked to do some- 
thing for her, was quick to promise, in his prompt, decisive way, to 
go right off and attend to it. He felt very important all at once, 
and especially pleased that his errand would take him just exactly 
where he had been pining to go. 

“ Your mother has permitted me to ask you to do me a favor, 
but she does not know what, or where it will take you ; later I will 
tell her. For this, you must not stay,” said Natalie. 

“All right!” said Baste, rumaging for an Affghan, which he 
found doubled up in the closet ; then he was off. 

Toward evening there was a tap on Natalie’s door. She opened 
it, and there was Baste. 

“ He’s going to-morrow, Natalie, and invited me to go with him ; 
but mother’s laid down the law about those walks to ‘ Ole Virgin- 
ny’s shore.’ ” 

“Thank you, Baste,” she said, in quiet tones. “To-morrow ! to- 
morrow ! Oh, cruel necessity that brings me face to face with the 
destroyer of my peace ! ” she murmured, as the boy’s footsteps 
bounded along the passage and down the staircase, he whistling 
blithely, as he went, the old negro ditty, “ Carry me back to Ole 
Virginny’s shore.” 

His mother met him in the lower hall. 

“ Baste, my boy, Natalie wished you to do something for her to- 
day ; have you attended to it ? ” she asked. 

“’Deed and I did, my mammy!” cried the boy, throwing his 
arms around her and giving her a hearty, loving kiss. 

“ What a bear you are growing to be, Baste ; you have quite 
taken away my breath ! I am glad, however, that you obliged 
Natalie, who asks so few favors.” 

“All right, mother. Now I’m off, if you don’t want me for any- 
thing.” 

“ Be in before dark ! ” his mother called after him, and he was 
gone. 


352 


TANGLED PATHS. 


The “ Knights of the Round Table” met in solemn conclave that 
evening, to discuss an important piece of news. Their school was 
broken up. Mr. Sheldon, their teacher, was going South. He was 
a native of South Carolina, and although he had not “ trod his 
native heather ” since he was two years old, his mind was fired with 
a sense of loyalty to it, which rose supreme above that rightly due 
to the United States Government. Yes, he was going; South 
Carolina had passed the ordinance of secession ; it was her right as 
a sovereign State — one of the original thirteen — to do so ; and, 
stand or fall, Mr. Sheldon cast in his fortunes with hers. 

Some of the knights applauded him for the act ; others condemned 
it ; and a political quarrel ensued, which threatened the disruption 
of the knightly circle. Even Sir Galahad waxed wroth and threat- 
ened to punch Sir Launcelot’s head if anything else was said about 
" Northern scum” and “ mudsills.” 

The same spirit permeated the human masses through the length 
and breadth of the land, dividing communities, families, and friends 
in a feud more bitter than death, until it seemed that “ spirit^ from 
the bottomless pit had come forth, stirring up the minds of men to 
wrath.” 

“ What on earth is to be done with Baste and Con ? Now, more 
than ever before, do they need the system and discipline of a school 
like this which Mr. Sheldon has so recklessly — as it seems to me — 
broken up?” were Mrs. Waite’s last thoughts that night before 
falling asleep. 


CHAPTER V. 


Not far from the Washington end of the Long Bridge there stood 
a negro cabin fronting the road ; its garden, where in their due sea- 
son the vegetables and fruits most “toothsome” to the African 
palate were plentifully produced, extending down to the marshy 
flats of the Potomac. This humble, whitewashed dwelling was con- 
structed of the “flotsam and jetsam” of the river, which its owner, 
a fisherman named Joe, had accumulated after freshets and storms, 
with patient industry, and where his wife and their two little brown 
children abode in peace, far happier, doubtless, in their rude home, 
than are many of the great ones of the earth who live in palaces. 
The door was wide open, for another summery day had dropped out 
of the heavens, and the blaze of the driftwood fire glowing far back 
in the deep chimney gave a cheery aspect to the homely interior. 
The two children, bright-eyed and curly-pated, were building oyster- 
shell houses before the door, chattering like magpies and laughing 
as only people of their race do. Their mother, within doors, but 
having them well in view, was bending over a wash-tub, making the 
soap-foam fly to the exciting tune of “ the old ship of Zion,” the 
“ hallelujah ” parts emphasized with such extra vim upon the 
washboard that an accompaniment, strange, but not unpleasant, was 
produced. A brown, large-eyed, handsome creature was Daphne 
Custis, with the muscles of an Amazon and the lithe grace of a 
leopard. A gay Madras turban was wrapped about her head, and 
her person clothed in blue and white “Virginny cloth.” The 
“year of Jubilo,” that was now so near its dawning for her ra,ce, 
gave her but small concern, “for didn’t ole Misses over yonder at 
Arlin’ton, leave me an’ Joe free when she died ? — none o’ your or’- 
nary free niggers, but ones as had the raisin’ o’ white folks in the 
fust family in Virginny,” she used to brag, with a toss of her head, 
when their friends dropped in on Sundays to talk over the re- 

( 353 ) 


354 


TANGLED PA THS. 


ports they had heard about all that “ Linkum ” * was going to do for 
the slaves. “ I don’t want to be no freer than I is, an’ no better,” she 
would often add. “ I’d like to know if Miss Mary Lee, and Mars’ 
Robert too, don’t come to see us, and bring their child’ en along 
too — no mean po’ folk pride ’bout them ! I tell you it’s only real 
gentry as knows how to treat niggers ! Them furriners from the 
No’th can’t abear the same air we breathes, for all their abolition 
talk ; and they says we don’t cook clean ! Hi ! reckon they aint 
never seed any ole Virginny cookin’ yet ! ” 

The sun was slanting westward, throwing level beams through the 
window of the rough tenement, illuminating the scraps of coarse, 
painted china upon the shelves, the gaudy pictures upon its walls, 
its odds-and r ends of tin vessels, its festoons of hops, herbs, and 
pendant yellow gourds hanging from the rafters, until it looked like 
an old Flemish picture, so realistic, yet so picturesque. All of a 
sudden there was a cry, and the two piccaninnies rushed in, cling- 
ing, with scared faces, to their mother’s skirts, who straight ways ran 
“ the old ship of Zion ” aground, looked quickly to see what might 
have frightened them, her dripping hands ready, at a moment’s 
warning, for an assault on the invader of her home, whoever or 
whatsoever it might be ; but she saw only a tall, pale lady, in black 
garments, whose sad face was partially hidden by a long crape veil 
that fell over the side of her bonnet. 

“ May I sit here, by your door, and rest ? ” she asked, in gentle 
and courteous tones. 

“ You’re very welcome, Missis,” said Daphne, wiping a rush-bot- 
tomed chair and bringing it forward with, hospitable alacrity. 

“ Thanks. I have frightened the little ones ; I am sorry. Will 
you give them these to buy dolls with ? ” she said, holding out two 
new silver half dollars. 

“ Whar’s your marners, Bet and Nell ? Come ’long to the lady, 
an’ make a curtshy. They’s the foolishest little toads ! ” said 
Daphne, bringing the two young ones to the front, her brown cheeks 
dimpled with smiles, and her white, even teeth showing between 
her lips. 


* So President Lincoln’s name was pronounced by the negroes. 


TANGLED PA THS. 355 

u Do not mind me ; I will only sit here a short time, then go 
away,” said Natalie, for it was she. 

So Daphne, knowing the ways of “ white folks,” and possessed of 
that tact so common to the better class of her race, returned to her 
washing with vigor, and Bet and Nell to the exquisite contemplation 
of the bright, new coins, over which they were holding an animated 
discussion as to the manner of their disposal, being divided as to 
whether they would buy a horse and carriage, or a big vessel for 
“daddy,” with what seemed to them to be unheard-of riches; finally 
they began to utilize the time — not in the least, however, desisting 
from their chatter — by popping corn in the embers, which flew out 
in beautiful white fantastic shapes in every direction, they scuffling 
and giggling to grab the largest and prettiest. 

And Natalie waited, her hands lying folded in her lap, her eyes 
gazing out to catch the first glimpse of Andrea Douskoi. She had 
been watching all the afternoon, walking slowly up and down, scan- 
ning every passing object with jealous eyes, lest by some chance he 
should after all evade her, until her feet ached, and she began to 
dread that he had either crossed over before she came, or would not 
come at all. Then walking down toward the bridge, she noticed the 
fisherman’s cabin, and thought she would go in and ask permission 
to rest, as she could do so and at the same time keep a vigilant eye 
on the road. Now and then she arose, and looked up and down 
the wide, un paved street ; she could have seen him a long distance 
off, there were so few persons whose business, ordinarily, led them 
in that direction ; but he did not appear. Full of deep, passionate 
thoughts, the woman sat there white and motionless, wholly intent 
on the object that bi ought her. 

A wild, shrill cry suddenly rent the air, a shriek of such mortal 
terror and pain that it roused Natalie from her bitter trance, 
and, springing up, she saw one of the little brown girls in flames, 
her cotton dress having caught from a spark while she was scram- 
bling for some particularly large pop-corns in the chimney corner. To 
snatch off her large woolen shawl and envelope the child in it, then 
tear away the burning garments underneath, scorching her fair 
strong hands, without stopping to give a thought to herself, was the 
work of a moment. The mother, who in her first terror had rushed 


356 


TANGLED PA THS. 


frantically out, screaming for help, leaving the child to burn to a 
crisp, as she would have done but for the stranger to whom she had 
given hospitality, now returned, her face ashen in hue, and her eyes 
dilated with a wild, anxious expression, while she stood a moment as 
if fearing to approach, lest she should find the little one dead. 

“ Bring a bucket of water,” said Natalie ; “ she is not much hurt, 
I think. There, now, throw it over her,” she added, laying the 
child out of her arms, upon the floor ; " never mind the shawl.” 

It was true, the child had been more frightened than hurt ; a 
few scorches, and a blister more or less on the nape of her neck, 
was the extent of her injuries ; and now she showed, when the cold 
water douche came upon her, that her vitality was not in the least 
impaired, by the agile manner in which she floundered, like a freshly- 
caught salmon, about the floor, screaming and gasping for breath. 
In her mother’s arms at last, and convinced that she was neither to 
be roasted alive or drowned, she set up a fresh howl for her “bright 
money,’’ which she had dropped, and which had rolled away under 
the table, where fortunately for her peace of mind it was quickly 
found, glittering in the narrow track of sunshine that lay upon the 
floor. Crying, scolding, and laughing, all together, Daphne anointed 
the burnt places with goose-grease, the plantation specific for all 
hurts, put fresh clothing on her, combed out a little singed wool 
from the back of her head, and, standing her upon her feet, be- 
thought herself to thank the lady who had saved her child’s life ; 
but, turning to do so, she saw that she was gone. 

As soon as she had placed the child in its mother’s care, Natalie 
hastened back to the door, fearing that he whom she sought might 
have passed by during the scene I have described. She looked up 
the road, but there were only one or two workmen plodding their 
weary way home, and some urchins playing “ I spy,” with shouts 
and vociferations more loud than sweet ; then turning toward the 
bridge, she saw his tall, stalwart figure, his long, firm, sweeping gait, 
his erect, haughty head standing out against the golden haze of the 
sunset like a magnificent silhouette ; but he was far in advance of 
her near the “ draw,” and she saw men there preparing to let a ves- 
sel through. In a few minutes the draw would be up. Oh, if she 
might only reach him in time ! Swiftly, like a shadow, she had 


TAJVGLED PA THS. 


357 


flitted from the negro cabin ; swiftly her footsteps bore toward him ; 
but too late ; he was on the other side, and the draw was up. There 
was no help for her but to wait. Had she not been waiting all these 
years ? what, then, would a few hours more count ! He would re- 
turn, and she would await his coming, if it was until midnight or 
day-dawn. She walked slowly up and down, and once stood where 
a section of the railing had rotted and dropped into the river, watch- 
ing the tide ebbing away through the marsh grasses on the river 
shore. 

“ Ma’am,” said a man’s voice behind her, “ that aint a safe place 
to stand, if you be given to giddiness ; you might go over before 
you know where you are.” 

It was one of the men who attended to the draw, who, noticing 
the white, woesome look of her face, was afraid that she meant to 
drown her sorrows in the river, as one unfortunate had done but a 
few weeks before. 

“ Thanks ! ” she said ; “ I did not notice. I expect some one 
presently ; I am waiting,” she answered, moving away. 

“ There’ll be full moon ’bout ten o’clock, when the tide turns,” 
he said to one of his comrades, “ and I’m going to run down to 
Alexandria in my sail-boat ; will you go along ? ” 

Yes, the other one would go ; and the two walked off together, 
leaving Natalie alone. The “ draw” was down, and some market- 
carts and several pedestrians who had been detained while it was 
up, passed her, the latter talking “ North and South,” as was the 
fashion of the time ; some of them were excited, furious, and 
mingled oaths with their politics ; others made a joke and scoff of 
what soon became a terrific reality ; there was a faint hurrah for 
Lincoln and a louder one for Jeff Davis; and there were a few 
only intent on their own purposes, and wisely silent. But none of 
them heeded Natalie any more than if she had been an unseen 
shadow, and she walked or stood as she listed, her mind occupied 
with her own thoughts. Sybil’s wedding was to take place in one 
week from that day, and she was here to make an appeal to An- 
drea Dousko'i’s honor as well as to his fears, to save her ; when, if he 
— knowing that she, his wife, still lived, and was here — still defied 
her, then she would go to Mr. Weston, with her proofs in hand, and 


358 


TANGLED PA TIIS . 


tell him all. She no longer feared this unprincipled man on ac- 
count of her son, knowing that he had no power to harm him, since 
he had escaped from Russia ; and but to save the Westons from all 
unpleasant publicity of a denouement , she would not have sought 
him here in this lonely place, without witnesses. 

The sun had gone down behind the hills, and now through the 
gathering twilight everything wore a shadowy outline. Travel had 
ceased between the Virginia and the District shore, the times being so 
full of trouble and apprehension that the country-people were afraid 
of being abroad after nightfall. The solitude grew deeper as the 
hours passed. No living soul appeared, and only the lapping of the 
tide, now on the turn, was heard. Now and then a whiff.of tobacco- 
smoke drifted past Natalie’s face, which caused her to look round to 
see if there was any one near her ; but, finding that she was entirely 
alone, she only wondered whence it came, and thought it must be 
an illusion of her imagination. But she was mistaken. There was 
some one quite near her, but unseen, because he was in his boat 
under the bridge, fixing his eel-traps, making them fast to some of 
the piles that supported it, against the tide came fairly in, and the 
tobacco-smoke was from the fisherman’s pipe. Having secured the 
eel-traps,* and fastened the paynter of his boat to one of the sup- 
ports of the bridge, there was nothing more for him to do but wait 
for the tide and for the eels ; and, waiting, he naturally fell into a 
ruminative mood while he smoked ; but his pipe being out at last, 
it would have been contrary to negro nature, rocking there so gently 
on the tide, with the swash of the water against the bridge and <he 
sides of his boat, not to fall asleep, which he did, in the happy con- 
sciousness that his being asleep or awake would make no difference 
to the eels. 

* Our inland readers may feel curious to know what an eel-trap is. It is 
simply a keg with one or more salt herrings or some scraps of fat bacon 
secured inside for bait ; in the head of the keg a hole is made, large enough 
for an old stocking-leg to be tacked around it, the loose end turned inside 
the keg. The keg is then placed in a favorable position among the mud 
and stones, to head the tide, and eels being given to squirming into holes 
and crevices where there is a chance for prey, they inveigle themselves into 
the keg through the stocking-leg, but, alas, never to emerge until taken 
forth to be skinned, a process which it is said they “get used to.” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


359 


How solitary the scene ! Who would have thought, had he not 
known, of the fiery passions and deep-laid treasons brewing and 
pulsing, as in a great inflamed heart, in the city over there, or of . 
the stealthy, deadly plots festering and ripening on the southern 
shores of the beautiful river, all was so silent and calm — apparently 
as calm as the clear, dark heavens above, where the pale stars 
awaited the coming of their queen. There was a gray swan stalking 
about the flats, and the guttural note of the wild-duck rose from 
among t,he sedges. It was so still that Natalie heard a clock in the 
city striking the hour ; she counted the hour in that vague way that 
people who are absorbed in some supreme emotion sometimes take 
note of slight, commonplace things, and she remembered that the' 
man who had spoken to her on the bridge had said “ the tide turns 
at ten.” It was nothing to her whether the tide turned at ten or 
twelve, except that with the tide came the moon, a* full, bright 
moon, by the light of which Andrea Douskoi would see and recog- 
nize the face that now he had such good reason to avoid. She 
looked down on the river, seeing nothing in the shadowy darkness 
except the tremulous reflection of the stars, dancing like ignus fatui 
here and there ; then glancing beyond, toward the south-east, she 
saw a faint radiance, like a halo, outlining the hills ; a tremulous light 
as of the coming dawn diffused itself through the dusky gloom ; then 
the moon’s great disc, like a rim of white flame, rose above the 
leafless trees, illuminating every object it touched with an inde- 
scribable radiance. The tide was surging in with its low song ; the 
flats and marshes were covered, and the wild-fowl had floated away 
to join their comrades in some safe inlet or creek. Higher and 
higher rose the moon, neither cloud nor mist to obstruct the glory 
of her brightness ; the river was like a sea of glass, full of restless, 
throbbing, whispering phantoms of light. And while Natalie await- 
ed, touched by the repose and beauty of the scene, calmed and 
nerved by it for the ordeal she awaited, Sybil Weston, pale and pa- 
tient as a saint awaiting God’s holy will, was reciting with fervor the 
Mysteries of the Rosary, by which the faithful heart learns best how 
to “ suffer and be strong,” even unto death. And while Natalie is 
waiting on the bridge, and Sybil is praying before the blest image of 
“ Mary conceived without sin,” the good nuns at Holy Cross are 


360 


TANGLED PA THS. 


just finishing a novena for her intention, and will at day-dawn offer 
their Communion for the same. 

It was past midnight ; and Natalie, with every sense quickened 
and on the alert, stood waiting in the bright moonlight, on the 
bridge, the river flowing like molten silver below. A sound strikes 
her ear, the echo of a quick, firm footstep ; she throws back her 
veil to listen. Ah, how well she knows the sound for which she 
once used to listen so eagerly. There he is — Andrea Douskoi, her 
husband, advancing toward her ; and here, where she stood near 
the broken railing, she would await and confront him. Her throat 
is throbbing with the intense excitement ; she loosens the ribbon 
under her collar ; even the golden chain about her throat oppresses 
her, and the medal feels like an intolerable weight, and she holds it 
up that it may no longer drag and tighten the chain upon her throb- 
bing arteries. “ Mary ! Mary ! ” she murmurs, “ thy human heart 
was never wrung like mine. Thou didst suffer like a ‘ valiant 
woman/ as the Hebrew poets call thee ; how would it have been 
hadst thou been hounded like a slave ? But I hold thy image, pure 
type of heroic motherhood, as my talisman in this moment of trial.’ ’ 
With strange emotion she presses the medal to her lips, and still 
holds it clasped in her hand when Count Succolov, attracted by the 
novel sight of a woman upon the bridge alone, at that hour, suddenly 
paused within a few feet of her, the natural generosity of his heart 
suggesting that he might save her if she were there for the pur- 
pose of self-destruction. And, throwing back her veil, she turns, 
with the moonlight full upon her face, and stands before him, her 
eyes looking full into his, and her face like a face of the dead. Thus 
suddenly confronted by the being that he least thought of, or wished 
to see, his audacious and haughty spirit quails at her presence, his 
swarthy face grows ghastly, and for an instant he is bereft of the 
power of speech. 

“ What brought you here, woman ? But perhaps I address a 
shade ; if so, I salute you ! ” he says, with an angry, mocking air, 
touching his cap with a pretense of courtesy. 

“ I am a living woman, Andrea Douskoi ; your wife, but come to 
claim no favor at your hands for myself. I have heard of the crime 
you contemplate in marrying Sybil Weston, and I have sought you 


TANGLED PA THS. 


361 


to make one last appeal to your — honor ; that this may not be add- 
ed to the list of your sins. The life of this innocent girl shall not 
be ruined, if by any act of mine I can prevent it.” 

“ What fiend sends you here ? ” he raged, his eyes flaming with 
demoniacal fury ; “ and being here, what can you do — you who 
have forfeited all right to my respect ? ” 

“ You speak falsely, and know it,” she calmly answers. 

44 A miserable adventuress ! Claiming to be my wife ! How 
dare you follow me, and thrust yourself into my affairs ? I will give 
you over to the police.” 

“ Dare, Andrea Douskoi ! I dare it for the sake of the innocent, 
and I give you a choice of two things. Go away, back to Europe, 
under any pretense you please, and my lips shall remain sealed ; 
otherwise I will expose you in time to prevent this marriage,” she 
replies, in clear, distinct tones. 

44 You are mad,” he answers, lowering his tone, “ to enrage me in 
this manner. Your threats do not move me in the least; but be- 
ware, woman ! lest what you do fall upon the head of your son , 
whose tendencies are well known to be of a sort which would make 
his transit to the mines of Siberia, if I chose it to be so, an easy 
matter. And so it shall be, I swear, if you do not upon your oath 
promise silence. What will avail your disclosing the past? You 
are dead to me ; and this girl, whom I intend to make my wife, is 
the only being I have ever loved. There ! ” he exclaims, exulting 
in what he imagined would be a final and overwhelming sting to 
her woman’s nature ; but she was too dead to him to heed it. 

44 Your threats about my child, Andrea Douskoi, have no longer 
the power over me that they once had ; he has escaped from Russia, 
and is safe beyond the reach of your cruel hate. Where he may be, 
I do not know, but he is out of Russia.” 

The man ground his teeth together, and with concentrated rage 
in every tone and look, simply asked who had brought her such 
tidings ? 

u One whom I trust, who also furnished me with proofs of his 
veracity.” 

4 4 Fabricated, worthless proofs, that could only deceive a credulous 
woman. But there are other proofs, the certificates of your cursed 
16 


362 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


marriage, without which, who would believe your story ? Woman ! 
you would be taken up as insane to bring such a tale against me, 
supported only by your word ! ” 

“ I have those proofs, and shall use them to save Sybil Weston,’ 1 
she replies, in low, determined tones, holding the medal off from her 
throat for breath. 

He sprang forward, there was a flash of something in the moon- 
light, a sudden cry breaking the silence, of “ Oh, God! save !” a 
heavy plunge into the shining river ! Where was Natalie ? With 
rapid steps Count Succolov advanced toward the other end of the 
bridge, his evil heart exulting in the thought that “ the dead tell no 
tales,” and was soon lost to view among the shadows cast by the 
houses ; but Natalie ! where was she ? Had she grown dizzy, and 
fallen over the unprotected side of the bridge, as she had been 
warned she might ? What meant that cry to God for help ? Had 
her soul, in that supreme moment, burst the bonds that had en- 
thralled it, and in that wild cry acknowledged at last its dependence 
upon its Creator ? 


CHAPTER VI. 


“ Oh, golly ! is dat a stu’geon, upsettin’ my boat and drowndin’ a 
feller ! ” shouted the negro fisherman, roused from his slumbers, 
under the bridge, by the fall of a heavy body into the river, so near 
him that he was not only deluged with water, but narrowly escaped 
being upset. Wide awake now, he looked around to see if he could 
make out what it all meant, and there, right in the bright broad 
wake of moonlight, he beheld something black suddenly rise to the 
surface, and knew at once from the dark garments floating around 
it that the object was not a sturgeon, but a woman ; a woman 
either dead or drowning. He did not wait to untie the moorings 
of his small craft to row to the rescue ; he only stripped off his 
heavy pea-jacket, got out of his capacious cowhide boots, then 
dropped himself into the river and with a few lusty strokes of his 
brawny arms he reached the spot, and grasped her garments just as 
she was going down again. 

“ She aint ben in long enuff to drown dead,” he reasoned, “ an’ I’ll 
jest take her home widout any fuss whatsomever ; ’cos dey mout 
say / done it, an’ have me up befo’ de cotes, an’ maybe hang me. 
I likes white folks, but some of ’em’s mighty onsartain.” 

All this time he was swimming back to his boat, breasting the 
strong current with one arm, while he held up the form of the un- 
conscious woman he had just rescued with the other; and, having 
reached it, he somehow got her into it ; quickly loosening the rope 
that held the boat, he put out his oars, and rowed shoreward, land- 
ing at the Lottom of his own garden, which stretched down to the 
marshy flats of the river. He had never felt so glad in his life as he 
was now to see the light shining through his cabin window, for he 
knew that his wife was up, dozing maybe by the fire, and he should 
not have long to wait outside with his dripping burden. It was as 
he supposed ; his wife had not gone to bed, but was waiting up to 
give him a hot supper when he got back, and she was dozing ; but 

(363) 


364 


TANGLED PATHS. 


half asleep, half awake, she heard his heavy footsteps approaching 
along the shell walk, then his voice calling her to open the door 
quickly, which roused her entirely. In another instant the bar was 
taken down and the door flung wide open, then a scream, as by the 
moonlight she saw Joe standing there holding a woman in his arms, 
both of them dripping like seals. 

“ Stop hollerin’, Daph ; I want some help.” 

“What’s that you got thar, Joe?” 

“ A drownded woman. Git a light. Leastways not drownded, but 
a’most; but if de same rule holds good wid white folks as wid nig- 
gers, we’ll fotch her to, sure’s you’re born !” answered sturdy Joe, 
laying the unconscious form gently upon the bed, while his wife, 
trembling, and Avith chattering teeth, held the candle so that the 
light shone full upon the white, chiseled face. 

“ Oh, Lord, Joe ! this is the lady that saved Bet from burnin’ up 
alive this very evenin’ ! Oh, Lord, help us to save her!” cried 
Daphne, tears rolling over her brown cheeks, as she tried to untie 
the strings of the lady’s bonnet and loosen her dress. 

“Don’t stop to talk, honey; you jes’ rub, an’ git some flannin’ 
things, an’ het up some whisky, an’ see dat de pot’s b’ilin’.” 

Confused directions, but all to the point ; and, somehow, they 
were fulfilled — for where there are willing hearts and nimble hands, 
nothing seems difficult of accomplishment. And what with rub- 
bing, and rolling, and flannels dipped in hot whisky, and hot appli- 
cations to the extremities — Daphne obeying all her husband’s direc- 
tions implicitly and with alacrity — their efforts were presently re- 
warded ; a low shivering breath fluttered on the white lips, then a 
moan as if from the very depths of a broken heart, and soon Na- 
talie — for it was she — opened her eyes and gazed blankly into the 
two dusky faces bending with such anxious interest over her. She 
did not know at first where she was, nor remember what had hap- 
pened ; but in a little while it all came to her, and she closed her 
eyes with a shudder. 

“You’s with friends, Missis,” whispered Daphne; “ my husban’ 
was out yander in his boat, an’ picked you up as soon as you fell 
off the bridge; an’ I thanks the Lord, Missis, as it so turned out 
that he saved you, and brought you here, after you savin’ my chile’s 


TANGLED PATHS. 


365 


life to-day. But, Missis, here’s some hot coffee, drink it ; then I’ll git 
off your wet clothes an’ wrap you up in them warm blankets hangin’ 
thar by the fire.” 

Natalie swallowed the coffee eagerly, for she had need of all her 
strength, and yielded thankfully to whatever Daphne suggested for 
her comfort. “ I shall presently,” she thought, “ be able to rise, 
and go home ; for what will Mrs. Waite think of me if I stay away 
all night ? I have only had a bad wetting, though worse was meant. 
Oh, I must go, go quickly ; now, please, help me off with these wet 
things ; and lend me some of your clothes — I will pay you. Oh ! 
help me, help me, that I may get home.” 

“ Yes, Missis, I will ; but tell me, is you hurted anywhars? Does 
you feel bruised like ? ’cause Joe he says thar’s rocks in the bottom 
whar you fell ; an’ he thinks, like as not, you hit ’em goin’ down.” 

“ No,” said Natalie, slowly, as she stretched out her lower limbs, 
and then her left arm, feeling that they were perfectly sound ; but 
on attempting to lift the right, a startled gasp of pain escaped her 
lips; she could not move it. What was the matter? Daphne, 
gently and with extreme care, removed the dress from Natalie’s 
shoulders, moving her as little as possible, and saw a wound as if 
made with a sharp instrument in the fleshy part of the arm, glancing 
a little way across the shoulder. The chill of the water when she 
fell, and the suspension of all consciousness, had stanched the 
wound ; but now that the circulation was restored to her system it 
was bleeding profusely. She remembered seeing the flash of a 
weapon when the infuriated man had sprung toward her, and felt the 
blow, which he meant should be deadly. But being so near the 
edge of the broken part of the bridge saved her ; with swift motion, 
seeing what he meant, she evaded its full force, receiving only the 
edge of the knife as she fell, which left but a flesh wound instead 
of penetrating a more vital part. Besides this, her shoulder was 
sprained from contact with an abutment of the bridge, or a rock in 
the river-bed. She felt faint from loss of blood, but she had no 
time for faintings or repinings ; that which she had to do must be 
done ; after that, let happen what might, even death itself, and she 
would feel satisfied. It had been one of her father’s whims to have 
her taught something of medicine and surgery along with her other 


3 66 


TANGLED PA THS. 


studies, thinking that should an emergency ever arise, when no pro- 
fessional help could be had, such knowledge would be practically 
useful; if not, she would lose nothing. And now that the emer- 
gency had arisen she gave some clear and simple directions : lint was 
soon forthcoming, bandages were torn from a homespun sheet, and 
Daphne, doing intelligently whatever she was told, bound up the 
wounded part after the blood was stanched. Then little by little 
the wet garments were replaced by coarse, but dry and warm ones, 
the comfortable domestic blankets were laid over her, after the bed- 
stead was turned round, and she lifted by the rough dark hands of 
Joe and his wife to the dry side of the bed. 

“My friends,” she said, laying her long white hand upon those 
which had saved and taken her in, and served her, as if she were 
one of their own race and kindred, “ I have reasons why I do not 
wish this accident to be spoken of — yet. Presently, when I feel a 
little strong, I want a carriage brought to take me home. You must 
promise to be silent. I will reward you. And do not think evil of 
me if you can help it.” 

“Missis,” said Joe, “’pend upon Daph an’ me. Ole Missis over 
yander at Arlin’ton brung us up to be still-tongued. But ez to your 
gwine ’way to-night, why, you see it’s long parst midnight, an’ ef I 
was to go an’ rout up a liv’ry man for a carriage to come here at 
dis hour, de p’lice would be arter me fo’ day. Best stay quiet, 
Missis, an’ git some sleep, an’ go home early in de mornin’,” per- 
suaded Joe, who had been down to the landing to see after his boat 
while his wife was making their visitor comfortable. • 

“ I will do as you say,” answered Natalie, settling her head upon 
the white pillows, her face as white as they. There was wisdom, 
she thought, in the uncultured man’s words ; she would wait ; it 
would only be for a few hours. “ I will try,” she added, “ to get 
some rest, if you will both go away to bed.” 

Pretty well worn out, and seeing that they had done all that it 
was possible for them to do for her, a rude night-lamp was lit, and 
wishing her “ better in de mornin’,” they went away to their sleep- 
ing-loft to snatch a few hours of rest, without which they both knew 
they would be nodding and napping all day, and would be demoral- 
ized so far as their every-day work was concerned. 


TANGLED PATHS. 367 

Joe’s last intelligible words, after hearing all that had happened 
after he went away to see about fixing his eel-traps, were : 

“ De ways of de Lord is parst fin’in’ out ! Here she comes ’long, 
a stranger we ’uns never laid our eyes upon befo’, an’ saves our Bet 
from burnin’ up ’live; an’ thar was I, soun’ ’sleep out yander under 
de bridge, thinkin’ nothin’ ’bout nobody, when g’lumph ! down she 
coined, a’most upsettin’ of my boat. I thought fust it was a stu’geon, 
or maybe a shark — it’s bin sech a quare sort o’ winter — till I seen 
her rise up ; den I jumped in, an’ grabbed her, an’ saved her outen 
de water, like she saved our Bet from de flames. Tit for tat, honey; 
de Lord be praised for — for — for — ” 

Joe couldn’t finish ; sleep had him, and held him too fast, and in- 
stead of saying, “all His mercies,” as he intended, he broke forth 
into resonant snores, which might after all have been translated into 
notes of thanksgiving for his well-earned rest. 

And Natalie, lying there so white and motionless, looking with 
wide-open eyes into the shadowy gloom of the humble apartment, 
of what was she thinking ? She remembered now, in the hush and 
stillness of the dark hours that precede the dawn, that in her ex- 
tremity she had cried unto God for help. “ Why had she called 
upon Him ? Was there a Being called God, after all ? But if so, 
what was He to her ? By what right had she lifted up her voice to 
Him for assistance in that frightful moment — she who had all her 
life denied Him? Had He protected her? Had His Providence 
saved her from the knife of the assassin, and from drowning? O 
mysterious One whom men call God, who art Thou ? ” 

These were the questions that surged through her mind, but there 
was no one at hand to answer them, to tell her that by a divine law 
of justice God will be recognized by His creatures — if not here, 
where there is hope, there beyond this life, where hope comes not 
forever to souls which have thwarted the end and aim of their crea- 
tion, trampling underfoot His merciful designs for their salvation 
by infidelity. From the cold, silent womb of unbelief, when all that 
was human failed — in that moment of wild terror, when she hovered 
as it were between two deaths — her soul in mortal travail had obeyed 
its eternal instincts, and called upon Him from whom alone help 


368 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


could come. She was saved from death, spared for a good work, 
that was all she knew. 

She was not a believer in chance; her intellectual organization 
and faculties were of too high an order for that, but it was equally 
certain that she was not a believer in God as revealed to us. With 
all her learning — versed as she was in the religious theories of 
paganism, in some of which the philosophers before Christ had al- 
most, in their own minds, evolved the Truth — read also, as a matter 
of curious study, in Christian dogmas, and in the Scriptures, how is 
it that she could find no solution to the great and mysterious ques- 
tion that vexed her soul? It was because human intellectuality, 
however towering and grand in its scope, is not faith — faith being a 
mystery far above all human wisdom, which it is given by grace, 
and not reason, to understand. It was thus with the great Doctor, 
Augustine, when, having exhausted all the resources of intellect and 
human knowledge in search of the Truth, and failed, he heard the 
still, small voice in the garden, its words few and simple, by which 
he was converted. This voice, and these words spoken to his soul, 
were supernatural, and in the opinion of pagans a foolish delusion, 
but it is by such foolishness that Almighty God oftentimes confounds 
and sets at naught the wisdom of men. 

Natalie felt like one groping blindly ; she was baffled by all the 
rules of reason and logic which had hitherto helped her out on other 
difficult and abstruse themes, and a strange terror crept into her 
mind. Whichever way she turned, there was no peace. She 
thrust away, or tried to do so, that which she could not understand ; 
from the tangible bitter facts of her sorrowful life, to the last 
crowning wrong which came near being unto death ; but her newly- 
awakened doubts would not be silenced ; they mingled and blended, 
yet separate and distinct from it, with the anguish and confusion 
that passed “like floods” over her, until at last, longing for some 
unseen hand to lead her, some strong power to disperse the mists 
beyond which she could not see, she cried out : 

“ If Thou art God, whom they say Thou art, enlighten my un- 
belief.” 

This was not a prayer, but a challenge, a defiance, implying not 


TA NGLED PA THS. 3 69 

only doubt, but, in kind, a pride like Lucifer’s, and yet how patient 
is God ! 

Natalie thought of her medal, and thrust her hand into her bosom 
to feel for it ; it was there, lying upon her heart, moved by its pulses 
—safe — and she grasped it, holding it close to her breast, glad that 
it had not been lost in the river when — “ I should have been mur- 
dered, had not — God — ” she said, slowly and deliberately, “ saved 
me.” Thus, scarcely knowing it, she admitted the great truth that 
there was a God who governed all things. “ But He saved me, to 
be His instrument in saving the innocent. Sybil Weston loves and 
fears and serves Him with a pure heart ; He is, then, a generous 
God, a shield and defense to such as adore Him. I will save her, 
the beautiful one with a fair, white soul ; but suppose, ah ! suppose 
I should be ill here, and not be able to get there in time? My 
head burns ; hot glows pass over me ; now I shiver — ah, God ! ” 

It was true, a fever was coming on ; not from inflammation of the 
wound, which was superficial, but from the over-excitement and strain 
of all she had passed through, and she was delirious for three days. 
Daphne nursed her ; tended her wound, which was doing well ; 
drenched her with balm tea, lemonade, and such other simples as 
“ole Missis” had taught her to use in fevers, thus leaving to nature 
its own recuperative powers of healing, unimpaired by poisons either 
mineral or vegetable, with which it is at present the fashion to tax 
the powers of the human system. 

One morning she awoke free from fever, and wondered where she 
was ; but soon remembered, for her head was perfectly clear, 
though she was very weak. Daphne came in with hot balm tea, 
but threw it behind the fire, and in a few minutes brewed some of 
another and more invigorating sort, and brought it to her patient in 
a fine gilded “Remember me” cup, her handsome brown eyes 
sparkling and her dusky cheeks dimpling with delight at finding her 
better. Natalie drank the tea and felt refreshed ; later she took 
toast and currant wine ; by and by Joe brought in a snipe that he 
had shot somewhere among the sedges, and when it was broiled and 
laid daintily on a delicate slice of toast, she did not refuse it ; she 
was hungry, hungry to get strength, which she could not expect un- 
less she took nourishment. Her fever did not return, but she would 
16* 


370 


TANGLED PATHS. 


not risk relapse by attempting to go home until the morning, for she 
had made trial of her strength and found herself very weak. The 
two little brown girls peeped in at the sick lady, and when she 
beckoned them, trying to smile, they scampered off like frightened 
rabbits. She wondered how she could ever reward the hospitality 
and friendly care she had received from this untaught colored family, 
to one of whom she was indebted for her life ? But a time would 
come for more substantial gratitude than thanks. She told them 
that she must go away early the next morning, as early as sunrise, 
and wanted a carriage engaged to come for her ; she had matters 
of great importance to attend to, and there was no time to lose. 

Daphne had cleansed and prepared her garments in the nicest 
manner, and here they were, folded in a clean towel, on a chair by 
the bed ; and “ here, Missis, is your pocket-book,” said the kind 
creature, handing it to its owner, all stained and blistered from hav- 
ing been wet. Natalie took out a half-eagle to pay her cab hire, 
and gave the pocket-book back to Daphne. 

“ Keep it for my sake ; and the little that is in it use for the little 
ones.” 

There were twenty dollars in bank bills in the pocket-book ; and 
that, although not a large sum, was quite a little fortune to this 
good couple, “ who earned their bread by the sweat of their brow.” 
They thought, Joe and his wife, that the lady must be a “ furriner ” 
on account of “de lot of gibberish she talked all de time de fever 
was in her head,” but they voted that she “ couldn’t a’ ben no bet- 
ter ef she had ben borned in Virginny itself.” 

Surprise mingled with doubts, anger, and dread alternated in 
Mrs. Waite’s mind with a terrible anxiety at Natalie's prolonged 
absence. She had grown to love the mysterious woman so long an 
inmate of her family ; she sympathized in her unknown sorrows, and 
her conversion was an object of her daily prayers. In a thousand 
ways she was endeared to her motherly heart through her true wom- 
anly instincts, blended with admiration and respect for her sterling 
qualities, her dignity of character, and her intellectual gifts. Under 
her care the education of John and Clara had progressed in the 
most satisfactory manner, while her moral influence over them all 
was very perceptible. And now, after having reposed the highest con- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


371 


fidence in her, without demanding hers in return, she had gone away 
as suddenly and strangely as she had come. Was this gratitude ? 
Was it such a return as Mrs. Waite had a right to expect ? But 
might she not have anticipated some such result ? Had not her 
friends warned her? A vague uneasiness had possessed Mrs. 
Waite ever since the visit of the person who had come that day 
with a foreign letter for Natalie, for had she not been distrait , and 
more pale and silent ever since ? Who was Natalie ? What had 
she been ? What her secret history ? These were some of the 
thoughts that haunted the gentle lady’s mind, sleeping and waking. 

The young people wondered and fretted, and the servants whis- 
pered their surmises to each other ; but Mrs. Waite, as prudent as 
she was charitable, forbore comment, hoping and praying that each 
day would bring some news of the missing one. She forbore, also, 
making Natalie’s disappearance public by the usual well-intentioned 
efforts to discover her whereabouts, and checked all questioning in 
her family in a manner which led them to suppose that she was bet- 
ter informed in regard to her movements than themselves. It had 
come to pass that Baste, in a gush of boyish regrets and conjectures 
about Natalie, told his mother of the errand she had intrusted him 
with some days before she went away. Her doubts grew and dark- 
ened, for what business could a woman in Natalie’s station and of 
her secluded habits have with Count Succolov ? Were they strangers, 
or had they known each other abroad ? Oh, these wearying doubts, 
that come out of life’s shadowy places ! happy they who have them, 
yet sin not by rash judgment. 

John cogitated and consulted possibilities, and settled it to his 
own entire satisfaction that Natalie had gone South ; there was no 
other solution for him to arrive at, for was not everybody going, and 
if Mr. Sheldon had been bitten by this madness, why not she ? John 
felt that evil days had indeed come ; he tried to philosophize and 
be sarcastic, but his efforts had more than once ended in a fit of 
tears when there was no one with him except his mother. “ We shall 
hear from Natalie very soon, I am sure, my boy ; meanwhile re- 
member, and impress it upon Con and Baste, that her absence is 
not to be spoken of outside the family as anything remarkable. 
It would not be pleasant for her when she comes back to have peo- 


372 


TANGLED PA THS. 


pie talking and making comments and putting false constructions 
on her actions.” 

44 1 know, mother,” he said, nodding his head with a wise air ; 
“ and we are all mum.” 

44 4 Mum ’ is almost as great a faculty as speech, my boy, rightly 
exercised,” said Mrs. Waite, smoothing John’s hair back from his 
forehead, where it had a fashion of tumbling in riotous locks. 

44 But,” argued Mrs. Waite, when alone in the sacred quiet of her 
own room that night, 44 what connection could there possibly be be- 
tween Natalie and Count Succolov ? He is here ; I saw him on the 
street with Mrs. Weston to-day. She is gone ; but he has never 
left the city ; would to God he had never entered it ! and in three 
days from this is to be married to my niece. Ah ! had God so 
willed to take her to Himself when her poor mother died, how much 
better for her than a marriage so unholy, so unblessed ! ” 

Mrs. Waite was not much given to emotional weeping; but, be- 
ing overcome by the thought of Sybil’s being sacrificed to a perver- 
sion of the holiest rites, and the prospective misery which must 
necessarily arise from a marriage not based on Christian principles, 
she burst into tears. But the condition of affairs appeared inevitable, 
and there was nothing left for her to do but to offer the trial sub- 
missively to Almighty God, in the firm trust that He would endow 
Sybil with those graces which in so ill-assorted a union she would 
need to make her sacrifice meritorious and acceptable. The All- 
Father permits the heaviest trials to His best-beloved ones, and that 
which He permits, to try them as gold in the crucible, must be suf- 
fered blindly, only never losing trust in Him, although the flesh may 
fail, and perish under the heaviness of the cross. 

The daily papers chronicled the magnificent preparations that 
were being made for this 44 wedding in high life ; ” a description of 
the trousseau, already arrived from Paris, which was displayed by 
Mrs. Weston to the more intimate fashionable friends of the family ; 
and the newly reset Succolov jewels, 44 hundreds of years old, and 
of marvelous splendor,” which the Count had presented to his 
bride-elect. But no one was audacious enough to chronicle the 
fact that the bride-elect wore none of the gladness in her face 
usually and naturally expected to be seen on an occasion like this ; 


TANGLED PA THS. 


373 


that she was cold, sad looking, and received congratulations without 
response or change of countenance, without the faintest hue lent 
by pulses quickened by happiness, without the slightest sparkle of 
joy in her eves. “ Mrs. Weston has made the match,” her own 
friends whispered. “ He’s a fortune - hunter,” suggested one. 
“There’s a secret attachment,” said another ; “Sybil Weston cares 
no more for that man than I do for my coachman.” And so they 
talked ; it is the way of the world to do so, envying and jealous, all 
the time, of that which they decried. 

Altogether, what with the troubles of the times, the anxiety 
brought about by the jeopardy and already depreciated value of 
property, her trouble about her children, now without a teacher* 
Natalie’s mysterious disappearance, and this miserable wedding, 
Mrs. Waite had as much as she could bear; her days vexed and 
anxious, her nights wakeful and without rest. In frequent Commun- 
ions, and hours of silent devotion before the altar, she found her 
only solace; there the trials that beset and wounded her were 
all unveiled, and best known to the pitying Presence that abode in 
the Tabernacle — that Friend who, behind the cloud that poor hu- 
man eyes can not pierce, beholds the All-Father and understands 
the mystery of His designs, wisely veiled from us. 

One morning, on returning from early Mass, Mrs. Waite found 
old Tom waiting on the steps for her, an ashy grayness in his face, 
and evidently full of something with which he was almost bursting 
to tell. Mrs. Waite could not speak ; she only wondered what new 
calamity awaited her. 

“Don’t be skeered, Missis,” said Tom, speaking low. “But 
she’s come back, an’ she looks like a ghos’.” 

“ Who do you mean ? ” Mrs. Waite found voice to ask, while her 
heart gave a great throb. 

“ Miss Natalie,” the old negro replied, as solemnly as if he were 
announcing, in truth, the coming back of the dead from the grave. 


CHAPTER VII. 


“ Ah ! at last ! ” thought Mrs. Waite, with a sigh of inexpres- 
sible relief ; then aloud : “ Where is she ? ” 

“ Went right away to her room, but wanted to see you as soon as 
you came. She corned home in a kerridge, with a ’spectable-lookin’ 
Qullud pusson, who helped her in, for she couldn’t hardly stan’, she 
was that gone.” 

“ Go up, Uncle Tom, and say that I will come to her without 
delay ; and ask her if she will not have something.” 

Mrs. Waite went into the dining-room and took off her bonnet 
and wraps. Her first impulse had been to go immediately to Nata- 
lie, but the sudden news of her return had somewhat unnerved her ; 
and on second thought she concluded that it would not be best to 
do so without being perfectly sure of herself ; for how could she tell 
how painful or exciting the interview might be, or what reason she 
might have for all the strength she could summon ? 

“She won’t have nothin’, Misses,” said Uncle Tom, returning 
from his errand, his old face still gray, and his hands not at all 
steady ; “ but jw/ mus’ ; you aint fit to go nussin’ on an empty stum- 
mick. Stay here till I fetch up some coffee an’ toas’, an’ a om’let.” 

Mrs. Waite felt that the counsel of her old servant was good, and 
consented to it if he would only make haste ; so he disappeared. 

“ Thank God ! thank God ! she has come back ! Oh, poor 
heart ! how could I distrust you, and you struck down by sudden 
illness, and may be sick unto death among strangers ? I might, I 
ought to have known that it was not of your own will that you 
stayed away. But why, why did she not send ? — but I will conject- 
ure nothing until I hear all from her own lips.” 

It was not many minutes before Uncle Tom came in with a tray, 
and set a delicate, appetizing breakfast before her ; he had bestirred 
himself to some purpose, moved thereto by a consciousness of there 
( 374 ) 


TA IV G LED PA THS. 375 

being something extraordinary in the air, which both mystified and 
disturbed him. 

“ Let the children have their breakfast in the play-room this 
morning, Uncle Tom ; tell them that I have taken mine, and am 
engaged ; but do not speak a word about Mademoiselle Natalie 
until I see how she is,” said Mrs. Waite, rising from the table. 

“ Yes’m,” answered Tom, chuckling as he thought of the storm of 
fun the young folk would get into over that breakfast ; for there was 
nothing they enjoyed more in the world than being allowed an un- 
restrained meal in their own proper realm. 

Mrs. Waite opened Natalie’s door without tapping, expecting to 
see her lying upon the bed ; but she found her standing, with folded 
hands, near the fire-place, looking like one from the dead — a stern, 
white, pallid face, in which every line was nerved by strong resolve. 

“ Welcome home, Natalie ; but why did you not send for me, my 
poor child, when you were taken ill ? I would have come at once,” 
said Mrs. Waite, taking the cold, unresisting hands in both her 
own, and kissing her cheek, which felt like marble, all her misgivings, 
resentment, and doubts given to the winds ; for Natalie, she well 
knew, would not be there in her presence, had she in any way for- 
feited her right to return. 

“ I could not come or send ; I have been too ill, out of my 
mind, and the good people who took me in did not know. But 
your God — to prevent a great crime — to save the innocent — pre- 
served my life, and I have come back to tell you all — all ! I hoped 
to keep silence to the end, but Sybil Weston must be saved, and I 
have the proofs which will do it.” 

A trembling seized her ; try as she might, her powerful will could 
not sustain a physique enfeebled by loss of blood and a dreadful 
nervous shock. 

“ You must sit down ; nay, lie down, Natalie, before I hear 
another word— there, my child ; are the pillows comfortable ? Now 
I will bring you some wine ; you need it.” 

“ Yes, I need it,” she whispered, and drank the rich old Burgundy 
eagerly when Mrs. Waite' came back with it, which soon revived her 
and sent a generous warmth through her chilled veins. She then 
requested Mrs. Waite to unlock her trunk and take from a certain 


376 


TANGLED PATHS. 


compartment which she indicated, a package of papers lying therein ; 
which she did, placing the package in Natalie’s hands. 

“It is asking much, madame, but you will read those papers 
presently ; they were brought to me by the stranger who called last 
week. They will tell my sad story, and explain much that must 
have seemed mysterious in my silence about myself.” 

“ I will do so, certainly ; but shall I read them here, and now, 
Natalie ? ” 

“ Here, and now,” she answered. 

Mrs. Waite unfastened the package of yellow, mildewed papers, 
and laid them upon the table in the order of their arrangement — - 
certificates, journal, and all — and proceeded to examine the contents 
of each. With breathless interest and profound sympathy she read 
every word they contained, to the very last. Having finished, she 
raised her eyes and met Natalie’s, luminous and dilated like great 
opals, under their thick fringe of black. 

“ And you — can it be that you are that—” 

“ Unfortunate woman — wife, mother — Olga, Countess Douskoi, 
whose history you have just read,” she interrupted. 

“ And your husband — ” 

“ Is Count Andrea Succolov. Now, madame, you see why I 
have been a wanderer, hunted from place to place ; how, for the 
sake of my son, to avert threatened wrongs from him — to keep him 
from despising the mother that bore him, on account of the poi- 
soned calumnies his father breathed against me — I have struggled 
with poverty and toiled for my bread. There is no time now to be 
lost. I must see Mr. Weston in time to prevent the sacrifice of his 
daughter.” 

“But the name, Natalie? We must be careful, and be quite sure 
that Count Douskoi and Count Succolov are one and the same 
person.” 

“ His name, madame, he takes from his mother; Carl Shaeffer 
told me that long ago, but could not remember it, and I did not 
know. But this man who would wed your niece is my husband ; I 
have looked him in the face only four nights ago, when I appeared 
before him where I had sought him, and he tried to murder me.” 

“ Oh, my God ! Natalie, how dreadful ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Waite, 


TANGLED PATHS. 


3 77 


y 


thinking that perhaps some vestige of delirium made her imagine so 
dreadful a thing. But no ! she was calm, passionless, and coherent ; 
there was no fever or wild pulse-beat as she related in low, even tones 
all that we already know ; and then, having finished, bared her shoul- 
der, and showed her the unhealed wound upon it. 

There was nothing more to tell, nothing to doubt. Mrs. Waite 
could not speak ; she was for the moment really benumbed with 
horror ; but at last, suddenly kneeling by the bedside and pressing 
Natalie’s hand close to her breast, she said : “ Forgive me, if, 
not knowing, I have sometimes misunderstood you. Oh, woman 
strangely tried ! God is leading you by bitter lessons, not in anger, 
but in mercy, to a knowledge of Himself.” 

“It may be so,” she answered slowly; “I do not know. You 
have been generous to me, madame — with a beautiful, noble gener- 
osity — having trusted me, believed in me, given me friendship, the 
love of children, and a home ; and, but for my sad secret, almost 
happiness.” There was a softened inflection in Natalie’s voice, a 
tender expression in her eyes. “And now forgive my silence, my 
coldness, and the anxious moments I have given your gentle, con- 
fiding heart.” 

“ Forgive ! Ah, Natalie, if you could only know how my heart 
has yearned over you and longed to comfort you, as a mother would 
her child I But the silence and mystery of your grief forbade it ; my 
human sympathies could go no farther than allowed,” said Mrs. 
Waite, her tears falling fast upon the passive hand she still held close 
to her breast. 

“ Think you, madame, I did not know it, and that it did not add 
a more poignant sting to my sorrows to be obliged to put back from 
my lips the draught of human sympathy for which I was athirst? 
But, oh ! let the past go ! A something — I do not know what — has 
brought things strangely together ; whether it is chance, or the 
natural ripening of cause into effect, or that which you call Provi- 
dence, is beyond my understanding.” 

“ It is God’s work, Natalie ; He who has guided and saved 
you, and who will, in the end, I humbly pray, crown your suf- 
erings with the gift of Faith, the fruits of which are indescrib- 
able peace, and a ‘joy that passeth all human understanding,’” 


378 


TANGLED PA TffS. 


answered Mrs. Waite, her voice low, fervent, and tremulous with 
emotion. 

“ It may bo — perhaps it is that unseen, mysterious power whom 
you call God ; but how shall I know ? how ever come to a 
knowledge of things unseen — ” 

“By believing in the Lord Jesus Christ.” 

“ Ah ! why torture me about beliefs ? ” exclaimed Natalie, wring- 
ing her hands, with a look in her beautiful, wild eyes like that of an 
animal brought to bay — the outflashing of the spirit of evil that had 
so long and so jealously guarded the approaches to her soul, and now 
trembled for its possession. “ Let me rise ; I must make haste to 
save Sybil Weston, then — then — oh, pardon me, madame — I will 
hear whatever you may have to say. It is dreadful — I, who have 
suffered, know how dreadful it is to be kept waiting in dark, thorny 
places, with fate, like a hair-suspended sword, held by an implacable 
hand that may let it fall with sudden destruction at any moment upon 
the defenseless head. Do not let us keep her in ignorance — pure, 
white soul ! — but go to her at once.” 

u Natalie, my child,” said Mrs. Waite, as she drew her head to her 
bosom, “ listen one moment. You need all your strength and com- 
posure. The time appointed for the marriage is two days off, and 
for certain reasons it will be better for you to see my brother in his 
own house. He is never there until five o’clock, and will not be in- 
terrupted at his place of business by any one. You must eat some- 
thing ; you must keep quiet ; and rest here, your body at least, and 
I will dress your wound, which needs attention. Then this evening, 
if you are equal to it, I will go with you to my brother’s. It will be 
time enough. Oh, how glad I should be to have Sybil know ! but 
that is impossible ; it would only disturb the composure of her beau- 
tiful submission to the Divine will, and fill her with an anxiety which 
we could not relieve ; for until this matter is laid before my brother 
we can not be certain how it will terminate.” 

“ I will wait,” whispered the white lips. Wait ! how many times 
had she said this before ! How long had she not waited ! But the 
end would come, as it comes to all things, sooner or later. Natalie 
laid her head back upon the pillows, and submitted herself passively 
to Mrs. Waite’s tender and judicious ministrations, which were un- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


379 


remitting, and tended at least to a recuperation of her physical 
powers. The torture of the mental strain upon her would admit of 
but one relief now ; Sybil Weston saved, then time, and the hope of 
somewhere on the wide earth finding her child, might bring healing 
to the festering wounds she had so long endured under the cloak of 
a cold silence ; unless, haply, she opened her soul to diviner conso- 
lations which could only come of entire submission to the Truth as 
revealed by Almighty God. There are two sorts of peace : one of 
a death-in-life, as when a tortured limb is paralyzed or a wound is 
cicatrized by the processes of nature, which being of the earth, 
earthy, bears no fruits beyond this mortal life ; the other is a peace 
born of faith, and submission to the All-wise Disposer of human 
events, of love and childlike trust in His Fatherly wisdom and tender 
care, which conforms the human heart to His by a union which 
bears the fruits of “ a peace which the world can neither give nor 
take away.” 

Without announcement, Mrs. Waite and Natalie drove to Mr. 
Weston’s that evening. Old Peter was on duty at the hall-door at 
the moment of their arrival, and would have made a noisy demon- 
stration of welcome if Mrs. Waite had notrmade a gesture that 
silenced him. 

“ Tell my brother that two ladies would speak to him in his library. 
Mention no names,” said Mrs. Waite, as she passed him, supporting 
Natalie’s feeble steps across the hall toward the library, which they 
entered, and seated themselves to wait until he should come. In a 
little while footsteps were heard approaching. Mrs. Waite, think- 
ing it was her brother, arose from her chair to meet him as he 
should enter, but it was only Peter, who came well into the room 
before he delivered his message. 

“Master’s at dinner, an’ he’ll be here presen’ly, ladies,” he said, 
in the formal tones of a well-bred servant ; then burst out on his 
own account, with : “ Oh, laws, Miss’ Waite, it’s a good sign to see 
you here wonst mo’ ; things seem to ha’ been gwine wrong-eend- 
fo’most ever sence you stopped cornin’.” 

“ Has my brother got company to dinner, Uncle Peter?” 

“ Nobody but that outlandish giant of a man they’s gwine to make 
Miss Sybil marry.” 


380 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“ Is Miss Sybil well ? ” 

“ You wouldn't ask if you was to see her ; she looks just like her 
mother did in her coffin ; ” and Uncle Peter sniffed; “ an’ that 
patient ! — oh, Lord ! I wish she had done gone to heaven ’long wid 
her mother.” 

“ I won’t keep you, Uncle Peter. We’ll wait here ; only two 
ladies, remember ; and close the door after you,” said Mrs. Waite, 
her eyes overflowing with tears. 

“ Nobody won’t get nothin’ out o’ me. Master he’s ben that bam- 
boozled — ” Peter muttered, as he went out, his sentence completed 
on the other side of the door. 

Imagine Mr. Weston’s astonishment, when he at last came in, on 
seeing who his visitors were. And how frigidly he greeted them ! 
He knew Mrs. Waite well enough to comprehend that after what 
had passed between them it could only be a matter of supreme in- 
terest that would bring her under his roof uninvited. It was per- 
haps some business difficulty ; in which case how gladly he would 
advise and help her ! There never had been any circumlocution 
about Mrs. Waite ; and now, as was her habit, she entered at once 
upon the subject which brought her there. When she began, Mr. 
Weston started and crimsoned, and once or twice when the drift of 
what she was saying dawned upon him, he would have stopped her. 
But a silence presently settled upon him ; a gray sternness over- 
shadowed his face, and his eyes fixed themselves upon hers, with 
wonder and inquiry and almost terror in their gaze. Mr. Weston 
was a cautious man, not given to credulity, or the uprooting of estab- 
lished ideas on simple evidence; and having heard all that Mrs. 
Waite had to say, he turned his attention to the written proofs which 
Natalie placed in his hands, the irrefragable evidence of the truth 
of the story he had just listened to. As he read them, slowly and 
carefully, he only lifted his eyes two or three times to take a long, 
earnest gaze at Natalie. He had been in correspondence with the 
Bank of Hamburg twenty years, and was perfectly familiar with the 
handwriting of the President, Von Stahlburg, and also that of Carl 
Shaeffer, so long one of his confidential corresponding clerks ; it 
was with him that Carl Shaeffer’ s nephew had secret and important 
business, which he remembered when Natalie explained who had 


TANGLED PA THS. 


381 


brought, and how recently, the papers before him. Altogether, it 
exceeded anything Mr. Weston had ever known in his life; such a 
complication of wrong and crime to which his daughter, the being 
he loved best upon earth, had been so nearly sacrificed ; he had never 
known before what it was to feel sick at heart, and it turned him 
white and speechless, and for a while motionless. 

“ Madame,” he said, presently lifting his face out of his hands, 
“ you have saved my child, and myself from a bitter remorse. I 
have no words to thank you. Will you fofgive me if, to settle the 
last doubt that may arise, I confront this man with you? ” 

“It is what I desire,” Natalie replied. 

Mr. Weston controlled his agitation, and pulled the bell-cord, then 
stationed himself upon the rug, in his usual position, to wait the 
result. 

“ Say to Count Succolov that I wish to see him for a few mo- 
ments in the library,” was the order given to the servant who ap- 
peared. 

“ Remove your bonnet, Natalie,” whispered Mrs. Waite. 

“ No, I will remain veiled until he comes.” 

He soon came, entering the room with an assured, lordly air, 
superb in his dark beauty ; and seeing two ladies, bowed, and look- 
ed inquiringly at Mr. Weston, whose stern and^ angry face surprised 
and stung him with a sudden, mysterious dread. He stood irresolute, 
his habitual savoir-faire scarcely saving him from embarrassment. 

“There is a lady here,” said Mr. Weston, speaking in his usual 
slow, distinct tones, “ to whom I would introduce you ; unveil, 
madame, if you please. Your wife, Count Succolov.” 

Natalie had quickly risen and thrown back her veil, and now, with 
her sad, beautiful face, of marble whiteness, she confronted him. 

“ You ! You ! ” he muttered, his giant strength suddenly gone, 
trembling in every limb, while his swarthy face shriveled as with age, 
and his great black eyes stared wildly. “ Do — do — you come from 
the dead?” 

Then he glanced at the papers spread out upon Mr. Weston’s 
table ; he was near enough to recognize the imperial seals upon 
them, and even the handwriting on the loose pages of the journal ; 
he felt that he was caught in his own toils at last. 


382 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Is this woman your wife, Count Succolov ? ” Mr. Weston de- 
manded. 

“ Wife ! yes, once, but cast off years ago for reasons which even 
here in this country are considered sufficient cause. I thought she 
was dead,” he answered, regaining some of his natural audacity. 

“ Since Tuesday night, when you attempted to murder her on the 
Long Bridge, but by God’s mercy failed. In justice to an unfortu- 
nate lady, I pronounce your charges against her honor false. I 
know all. Leave my house instantly, Count Succolov, lest I sum- 
mon the officers of justice,” said Mr. Weston, in those clear, incisive 
tones so much more impressive than a loud, excited manner of 
speaking. 

Found out, and baffled, the desperate man cast a scowling, sullen 
glance upon the group, bowed with a mocking air, and rushed from 
the house, muttering vengeance. He had been taken at such sudden 
disadvantage by being confronted so unexpectedly with his crimes 
just at the moment when he imagined himself free forever of the 
most dreaded witness against him, and was exulting in the thought 
that by her death he was now indeed at liberty to marry Sybil, that 
neither his cunning, his skill, nor his bravado were at his bidding 
when she appeared, living, in his presence, with the documentary 
proofs of his guilt. 

“You were right; forgive me,” said Mr. Weston, wringing his 
sister’s hand. And to Natalie: “I am too much shaken by all this 
to express my gratitude to you, madatne, in behalf of my child 
Later I will. But I would see her at once, alone, if both of you 
will excuse me.” 

Mrs. Waite gathered up the important papers strewed over the 
library table, her heart full of speechless gratitude to Almighty God 
for His mysterious Providence toward them all, and throwing her 
arm around Natalie, supported her to the coupe, where she sunk 
back, nearly fainting. 

Sybil was in her room ; Edyth was clinging around her in her 
childish, pertinacious way, making her complaints and protests 
against the approaching marriage. Nothing else being talked about 
in the house, her mind was full of it, and yet more full of grief at 
the prospect of losing her sister 


TANGLED PA THS. 


383 


“I just hate him ! I told you he looked like a pirate the first time 
I ever saw him, and I believe he is one ; and I only wish I was a 
man, I’d shoot him, so Iwould; he*s horrid — and cross — ” Edyth 
was saying, when the door opened, and Mr. Weston came in. It 
was the first time he had ever been there, and now there was such a 
strange look in his face, so unlike its usilal immovable gravity, that 
Sybil did not speak or rise to welcome him, and Edyth’ s querulous 
complainings were hushed. 

“ Go to Miss Arnold, Edyth,” he said, gently; “I wish to speak 
to your sister.” The child let loose her arms from Sybil’s waist, 
and went reluctantly, at her father’s bidding. 

“ Sybil, my child, I have come near doing you a great wrong, 
through what I thought was a judicious and excusable desire to see 
you well established in life ; can you forgive me for it, and for all the 
pain you have suffered by your obedience to my will ? ” said Mr. 
Weston, standing before her. 

“ Let there be no question of forgiveness between us, dear 
father,” said the girl, gently, scarcely understanding the drift of what 
he said. “ Only love me, and let me love you — it will be enough.” 

“Sybil, are you then reconciled to marrying Count Succolov?” 

“ Reconciled to obedience, with submission to the holy will of 
God, if such be His will. You know He gives strength for the cross 
allowed by His wise designs,” she answered, with a far-away look in 
her saintly eyes. 

“ And he has won no love, no girlish preference, no desire to 
share the splendors of his high position in Europe ? ” 

“Nothing of all that,” she replied. 

“ And you would feel no regret to know that everything was bro- 
ken off? ” 

“ Oh, father ! how could I feel anything but thankfulness ? ” she 
said, clasping her hands, while every line of her face was tremulous 
with emotion. 

“ Then, my child, be thankful ; you are released from this marri- 
age, which from the first appeared so distasteful to you. Proof has 
come to me within this hour that Count Succolov is not only an un- 
principled and criminal man, but that he has a wife living in this 
city. Your aunt brought her to me, with every legal proof neces- 


384 


TANGLED PA THS. 


sar y to establish the fact ; and the unfortunate lady is none other 
than Natalie.” 

“ Natalie ! And did she know ? Oh, father ! God be thanked ! 
Our Blessed Lady of Help be thanked for this unexpected deliver- 
ance ! But Natalie ! She mixed up with crime ! My head feels 
confused with joy for myself and apprehension for Natalie, whom 
I dearly loved.” 

“ Quiet your apprehensions about Natalie, my child ; she is a pure, 
but injured woman, having no part in the crimes through which she 
has suffered. By and by, when I am more composed, I will tell 
you the particulars, or you can go to your aunt for explanation ; she 
will relate everything, and show you the papers.” 

“ To my aunt’s? When shall I go ? Oh, what happiness to come 
all together ! ” 

“ Whenever you choose ; but now, Sybil, knowing how near I was 
to ruining your life by my obstinate will, do you forgive me entirely ? 
Can you ever forget the past enough to be a tender, loving child to 
me in my old age ? ” 

Her arms were about his neck, her head nestling upon his bosom, 
while her lips uttered the assurances that his hungry heart craved. 
Mr. Weston had never been so agitated in his life as within the last 
few hours ; he could bear it no longer ; but, pressing his lips on 
Sybil’s forehead, he disengaged himself from her embrace and went 
back to the library, where he shut himself in to think it over and 
compose himself; while Sybil, her face growing more and more 
radiant from an interior joy, fell upon her knees before the blessed 
image of “ Our Lady of Help,” and poured forth the gratitude of 
her soul. An hour later she was at Mrs. Waite’s, and after the up- 
roarious delight of the young folks at her unexpected appearance 
among them had somewhat expended itself, aunt and niece retired 
to the little study, or library, where with closed doors Sybil was made 
acquainted with the history of Natalie’s sorrowful life and the events 
that had subsequently occurred ; and we will leave to the imagina- 
tion of the reader the impression they made upon her gentle, sensi- 
tive heart. 

Natalie was more composed, and under Dr. Brown’s care, whose 
opinion of her case was favorable. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


385 


When — foiled, beaten, and vanquished — Count Succolov left Mr. 
Weston’s house that night, he sent orders by his servant to the 
stables to have his horse saddled and brought round, tossed certain 
things pell-mell into his portmanteau, and, leaving upon his table a 
letter for Mr. Weston, to be delivered the next day, he mounted 
and rode off, away across the Long Bridge, the mettle of his fiery 
horse, “ Satan,” taxed to the utmost by the speed at which he was 
urged. He never drew rein until day-dawn, when, far away toward 
Richmond, he reached a place of secret rendezvous, known only to 
a few of the Confederate leaders, who met there at regular times to 
receive private intelligence from their friends and well-wishers in 
Washington. This was the secret of Count Succolov’s expeditions 
across the Long Bridge into Virginia, where, in some deep glen or 
dense thicket, the rebel mail-carriers or other messengers met him, 
to whom he confided the drawings he had made of all the ap- 
proaches to the capital, its public buildings, and principal streets, 
along with secrets intrusted to him by traitors in high official places, 
to whom he, an officer of the United States army, had easy access ; 
secrets which were supposed to be unknown outside the walls of 
the room where the Cabinet held its meetings, but which were pub- 
lished in the Richmond papers before they were even hinted at in 
Washington. Under pretense of a great sympathy with the Gov- 
ernment in its impending difficulties, and wearing the honored uni- 
form of the United States army, this man had won confidence in. 
official circles, and was not unfrequently counseled with in regard to 
certain plans modeled on military strategy abroad, with which he was 
familiar and could give intelligent information about ; he betrayed all 
that he knew, and he had opportunities of knowing a great deal, to 
the enemy, who sought the destruction of the Government. He 
was warmly welcomed by the Rebel junta in Richmond, and for 
his valuable services received the commission of Brigadier-General 
from the secretly organized Government of the Confederate States. 

The letter left upon his table for Mr. Weston directed that his 
family jewels, and other valuables of his in Miss Weston’s possession, 
should be deposited with Mr. Wykqff, the Russian banker. This, 
however, had been already done before Mr. Weston received the 
letter. Once, twice again, shall we meet Count Succolov, but under 
17 


386 


TANGLED PA THS. 


circumstances of supreme interest, which for the moment will almost 
make his crimes forgotten in the commiseration they excite. 

Mrs. Weston was furious, and would not believe but that the 
breaking-off of her step-daughter’s “ brilliant match ” was the result 
of a malicious conspiracy planned by Mrs. Waite to that end ; for 
had not Mrs. Waite been opposed to it from the first ? She was 
furious with her husband, with Sybil, with all concerned, and an- 
nounced her intention of going abroad with Edyth. She did go, 
but Mr. Weston would not permit her to take Edyth ; he intended 
that she should be placed under better, safer influences. Mrs. Wes- 
ton stormed, but seeing how fruitlessly she was expending her nerve 
forces about a thing she at heart did not much desire — knowing that 
Edyth would give her no end of worry — she left with Mr. Weston 
the cruel imputation of having separated her from her child, got a 
great deal of sympathy from her friends, and at last found conso- 
lation in the fact that she was going to cross the ocean in company 
with the Slidells, by whom she was invited, in New York, to join 
their party before sailing. 

The town talked over the “ broken match;” but it was scarcely 
a nine days’ wonder, for the war-cloud gathered heavily ; momentous 
and exciting events were hourly expected, which kept every one on 
the qui vive. Between whiles the whispers went on ; some gave 
one reason, some another for the rupture ; every one was disap- 
pointed of the brilliant wedding and the splendid religious pageant in 
church, and all the gossip sure to follow in spite of everything ; but 
it was at last understood as a fact that Mr. Weston had discovered 
just in time that Count Succolov was a married man, and that his 
wife had appeared against him. That was all that could be learned ; 
and when they saw Sybil recovering her color, her cheerfulness, her 
pleasant, sweet ways, they began to believe that it had been no great 
disappointment to her. 

The Russian and French Ministers, who had indorsed Count 
Succolov, also the banker Wykoff, wrote home at once for informa- 
tion about him, and discovered that he had assumed his mother’s 
family name — an old and noble one in North Russia ; it was this 
excellent family with whom they were acquainted, and each one of 
them were absent in distant countries, one in China, one in South 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


3*7 


America, the banker in New Orleans, at the time Andrea Dousko'i’s 
irregular and criminal acts had dishonored his father’s name, which 
he had dropped for that of his mother on going into exile. The two 
Ministers and the banker hastened to lay their letters, which fully 
exonerated them from all knowledge of Count Succolov’s true 
character, before Mr. Weston, and heartily congratulated him on 
the escape of his daughter. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The frightful reality which every one, either secretly or openly, 
hoped might be averted, came at last out of the chaotic whirl and 
maddening confusion of the lowering storm, and the long-threatened 
war opened in Charleston harbor. It was not a battle, but an as- 
sault on Fort Sumter, beleaguered by six thousand men against sixty ; 
by nineteen batteries, which covered every assailable point, against 
a few badly-mounted guns and hastily constructed defenses ; by 
hundreds of cannon and mortars, which threw deadly missiles, hot 
and cold, and shells that fell crashing and blazing with incessant 
fury, the projectiles piercing the solid walls, until finally the roofs 
and unfinished woodwork of the interior of the fortress was in flames. 
Whether in hopes of a more speedy surrender, or from a sentiment of 
humanity, offers of assistance in extinguishing the fire were promptly 
made by the enemy, and as promptly declined by Major Anderson, 
whose officers and men, scorched by the flames and almost suffoca- 
ted with smoke, and in deadly peril from the powder-barrels near 
the guns, the loose powder scattered about, and the magazine, were 
determined to defend their trust and the honor of their flag to the 
very last extremity. By desperate expedients and unexampled en- 
ergy the fire was subdued. But their ammunition was running low, 
and that stored in the magazine unavailing, the heavily-plated door 
having been staved and wedged in, in such a way by the projectiles 
hurled against it, that it was impossible, pressed as every man was, 
to force it open. From Cummings* Point, Morris’ Island, Sullivan’s 
Island, James’ Island, from Fort Moultrie and Mt. Pleasant, all day 
and all night of the 12th and 13th of April the frightful and unequal 
combat raged. The staff of the United States flag was splintered 
by a hostile shot, and fell amidst the sullen smoke-wreaths like a 
wounded eagle ; but not for long ; it was again raised aloft by a 
private named Peter Hart, amidst a hail of fire which the enemy 
(388) . 


TANGLED PA THS. 


389 


concentrated on that point, when his intention became apparent, to 
prevent it, but vainly, and the “Stars and Stripes” floated once 
more defiantly above its brave defenders. 

But the contest was at too great odds, and one by one the guns 
of the fortress were silenced ; scorched, exhausted, starved, and 
without sufficient means of defense, human courage, human endur- 
ance, could go no further, and it was determined to accede to the 
terms of surrender that had been offered. But no ! not yet ! from 
the very jaws of death a cannon, another, and still another belched 
forth its fiery, defiant thunders against the hostile batteries on Cum- 
mings’ Point, each one answered, not in kind, but by wild cheers, 
from the rebels, who crowded the ramparts in admiration of the 
pluck that still defied them, though all save honor was lost. It 
showed that hate did not entirely possess the minds of the passion- 
ate, impulsive men who had pledged “ their lives and sacred honor” 
to destroy that fair temple of Liberty which their ancestors had 
pledged theirs to build up ; it showed that a fraternal chord of sym- 
pathy and a noble pride in the achievements of their fellow-coun- 
trymen still animated them. And when at length the surrender of 
Fort Sumter was formally made, on conditions honorable to its 
brave commander, his officers and men, and the cause they repre- 
sented, and the brave garrison embarked on the steamer Isabel 
passed the various island batteries to reach the United States squad- 
ron lying outside the bar, “ the shores were crowded with men,” as 
Beauregard states in his report, “ who stood silent, and uncovered, 
as they went by, a spontaneous homage paid to their gallantry and 
indomitable courage.” Let us remember this as an incident of im- 
pulsive magnanimity, and a tribute that could only be paid by brave 
souls to the brave ; let it be remembered as a lesson to the younger 
generations, of generosity to the vanquished. 

The trees were filled with tender buds ; the delicate blossoms 
that gave rich promise of abundant fruit sent their drifting snows 
earthward ; crocuses, daffodils, hyacinths, and lilacs mingled their 
subtle fragrances together in the balmy air, which every breath of the 
south wind scattered like incense ; the bluebirds trilled their snatches 
of sweetest song ; the sunshine was golden over all ; and the river, 
the beautiful river, danced and sparkled and ebbed and flowed be- 


390 


TANGLED PA THS. 


tween its green, shores, sighing and whispering runic rhymes among 
the sedges that lined them. Ah, daffodils, violets, and tree-blossoms 
of the land ! soon to be trampled and stained with blood, giving 
out your sweet lives under the fierce tramp of armies in deadly con- 
flict, and blackened and smirched and torn by the smoke of cannon 
and the rattling hail of shot ! O sweet south wind ! to be rent and 
torn by thunders of artillery and the moans of the wounded and dy- 
ing ! O little birds who were to be frightened from your old happy 
haunts in wild wonder at the awful tremors rending the air ! O 
sunshine, like golden wine, to be veiled behind such clouds as never 
hung over the land before ! who could look upon ye and not think 
of the Holy Innocents slain by Herod, now that the demon of sec- 
tional hate was abroad with fire and sword ? Worst of all, the 
thought of human carnage not yet realized, the desolated homes and 
lives, the dead, the dying ! Ah, God ! that men should madly elect 
such calamities, which might be settled by wise arbitration ! 

The streets of Washington were filled with armed men; thou- 
sands upon thousands more were on their way ; tramp, tramp, tramp, 
was heard all day and all night ; the rumbling of artillery, of baggage- 
wagons, of ambulances, the clatter of horses’ feet upon the stones, 
the metallic clink of sabres, as the various regiments marched to the 
camps assigned them. Then came a pause. The rebels had de- 
stroyed communications between the North and Washington ; loyal 
troops were fired upon in the cars while passing through Baltimore 
to the defense of the capital, and there was no approach left open 
except by a roundabout way from Annapolis, by the Chesapeake 
Bay and the Potomac. To add to the horrors and alarm of the sit- 
uation, it was announced that the rebels had erected batteries upon 
the Virginia heights, from which they intended to bombard the city ; 
it was even declared that their earthworks and cannon were visible, 
and also that the secret rebel organization in Washington would de- 
stroy the public buildings at a given signal. Thus between hostile 
Maryland and hostile Virginia, with a bitter secret foe in our midst, 
there seemed no hope of escape for the panic-stricken citizens or 
the Government itself. 

At this crisis thirty thousand barrels of flour stored for the Confeder- 
ates in Georgetown mills were seized by the Government, and the 


TANGLED PA THS. 


39 1 

novel sight of carts loaded with barrels of flour and guarded on each 
side the driver by two soldiers with rifles and long bayonets, going in 
steady procession through the streets day and night toward the Capitol 
for storage, filled the people with a new and frightful alarm of antic- 
ipated famine. The price of flour went up on that day to fifty, to a 
hundred dollars per barrel, and all other provisions in proportion. 
The inhabitants were flying from their homes ; day and night, vehicles 
of every shape, form, and size, loaded with bedding, provisions, 
women, and children, left the city by the north-west country roads, 
while those who could not or would not go, waited in calm terror, as 
when a ship at sea is foundering and the doom of those on board is 
only a question of time. But the sun arose next morning and found 
the world still going round. Everything was quiet. No demonstration 
had been made from Arlington Heights, and bulletins announced 
that the citizens could purchase flour at the old prices by application 
to the authorized agent at the Capitol. There was an instant fall in 
provisions, and those who in their fright of the preceding day had 
invested hundreds of dollars in articles of food, the same quantity 
and quality of which could be purchased to-day at the old moderate 
prices, gnashed their teeth, and probably did not bless anything they 
ate for some time to come. Better than the fall of provisions came 
the glad news that communication was open again between the 
North and the seat of Government ; that the rebel movement was 
subdued in Maryland, and its loyal citizens, for the moment para- 
lyzed, had risen in their majesty and declared that their beautiful 
State should neither be made the battle-ground of secession nor be 
lost to the Union. There were no batteries on the Virginia heights, 
which were immediately occupied by loyal troops and lines of de- 
fenses erected. It was all terribly exciting, this first taste of the 
actual horrors that followed without intermission through five long, 
gloomy years.* 

Then followed — after two or three months of busy preparation, 
during which time the North sent down her loyal legions, her money 
and arms and ships to the help of the Government — her words of 

* I do not attempt to enter into historic details, but only relate facts, as 
witnessed, which have a bearing on “ Tangled Paths,” facts which I imag- 
ine will have some interest for “ Young America.” 


39 2 


TANGLED PA TBS . 


cheer, her assurances of future willing aid, which filled every patri- 
otic heart with hope, and made failure appear impossible — then fol- 
lowed the battle of Bull Run, to which the great glittering army of 
the Union had marched across the Long Bridge into Virginia with 
brave, steady tramp, their flags flying, their arms burnished like gold, 
their horses sleek and prancing, curving their glossy necks as if going 
to a tournament ; the cannon polished to such a brightness as to 
fling back the sunshine with dazzling effect from between the flow- 
ers that garlanded them, the bands making the heart wild with ex- 
ulting loyal strains, and the drum-corps giving fiercer utterance to 
the meaning of the splendid pageant. It was a gorgeous spectacle, 
and every man who had part in it, from General to private, felt con- 
fident of victory, although many of them, that we wot of, had at- 
tended midnight Mass in their camps, received Holy Communion 
as their Viaticum, and were adorned by their chaplain with the mirac- 
ulous medal of the Blessed Virgin. Not only they, but, struck by 
their faith, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of those brave hearts not 
of the Catholic faith, asked for and wore a blessed medal under 
their soldier’s garb. Even these had high hopes ; somebody might 
get knocked over, or cracked to pieces by a shell or something, but 
no individual man expected such a fate — for himself. The distant 
firing of the cannon was heard at the capital ; news came that some 
of the enemy’s batteries had been taken, people actually expected 
that this battle — the Union troops, of course, victorious — would end 
the war. Before such hosts the South must, seeing our strength, 
succumb and fly, vanquished. “ We,” boasted the South, “ will 
beat the ‘ mudsils ’ one to five ; ” and by a blunder which history 
tells of, one of those accidents which turn the fate of battles, as at 
Waterloo, the fortunes of war were disastrously turned at Bull Run. 
But to the sore surprise of the Southerners they found the “ mudsils ” 
fought as bravely as did the cloth-weavers of Antwerp on the “ field 
of the golden spurs,” and they had not the pluck to follow up their 
advantage, when, stricken with panic, the grand army, decimated 
and broken, was hurled back upon Washington, routed and demor- 
alized. The city was filled with the dying and wounded ; day and 
night, under a pouring storm of rain from low-hanging clouds, trains 
of ambulances from that bloody field, with their burdens of shattered 


TANGLED PA THS. 


393 


humanity, were steadily rolling through the streets toward the various 
hospitals ; and the pale, quiet watchers in the homes they passed 
heard, as they listened with strained ears, strange moans and de- 
lirious cries, and when morning came there was a track of dark 
crimson splotches staining the cobble-stones over which the bleed- 
ing, wounded men were borne. And the dead S the thousands of 
dead, with blank, staring eyes, some trampled by horses’ hoofs, some 
mangled and hacked by sabres, some broken and battered by shells 
and balls, of that brave, gallant army that had marched across the 
Long Bridge to that fateful field in Virginia ! “ What can save us ? ” 
“ Nothing. Beauregard and his army are marching upon us ! ” was 
whispered. As no doubt he would, “foot, horse, and dragoon,” 
but that his army was as badly punished as the loyal troops, and did 
not know of the rout of our army until they were on the eve of a 
rout themselves. As it was, the victory, so-called, was like other 
victories they claimed during the war, disastrous to them ; for every 
loyal heart in the land was fired to renewed exertions and sterner 
determination to spare nothing — life, money, nor aught else precious 
— for the attainment of the sublime object in view ; so that, really, 
victory exhausted one side while defeat strengthened the other. 

Natalie, who has been ill for some weeks, tenderly nursed byMrs. 
Waite and Sybil, and now convalescing, is reclining in a large easy- 
chair, near the open window, through which she has a glimpse of 
the river, which at this moment is tenderly touched by the setting 
sun with a roseate tinge. There’s an odor of violets and tea-roses 
about her; her face wears a more tender and softened look than 
when we last saw her, a something like peace, except for the flitting 
shadows that at times drifted through it from her longing, wearied 
heart. Mrs. Waite comes in, her countenance full of trouble, draws 
a chair near Natalie, lays her hand gently upon hers, and tells 
her she was detained longer than she expected by some business 
matters, but hopes she has been well attended to and feels stronger 
than yesterday. 

“ Thanks, yes ; do you not smell the fresh c Westover’ flowers?” 

“ Ah, that means that Sybil has been here.” 

“Yes; she brought them, and remained some time. Her visit 
was like a strain of music, leaving pleasant echoes,” said Natalie, 
17* 


394 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


dreamily, as if thinking aloud, for it was rarely that she gave utter- 
ance to the deep poetry of her nature. 

“ I have something to tell you, Natalie — ” 

“ About my boy ? Speak quickly.” 

“ No, dear child ; it is about — ” 

“ My husband,” she again interrupted, as the momentary color 
died out of her face, and a look of apathy settled upon it. “ What 
have you heard, madame?” 

“ He was in the battle over there,” said Mrs. Waite, pointing to- 
ward Virginia. “ Colonel Raynal told my brother that he met him 
face to face in one of the rebel charges against his battery, which 
they captured. He was about cutting down Colonel Raynal — who 
was already wounded — with his sabre, when he recognized him, 
touched his cap, and led off his men.” 

“ His was a fine nature, somehow wrecked,” she answered sadly. 

Somehow wrecked ! Are there not thousands and tens of 
thousands of “ fine natures” so wrecked ? Left to run riot, without 
moral or religious training ; without reverence even according to 
the natural order, respecting no code except the human, and 
scarcely that ; obeying no law except that which governs self ; 
sensuous, and greedy of riches for ignoble ends ; what better can 
be expected of the savage when unchained, and having its own 
will ? “ Frankenstein’s man ” is no more monstrous a creation, 

stalking through a frightened world, -than a human being the end of 
whose creation has been perverted by a false, godless system of edu- 
cation. Something like this was drifting through Mrs. Waite’s 
mind, and there was a sad, thoughtful expression on her counte- 
nance. 

“ Could you not persuade Sybil to stay, dear?” she said at last, 
to divert the current of Natalie’s thoughts. 

“ No ; she was going to drive her father out in her pony phaeton, 
and did not wish to keep him waiting, as it was the first time. But 
she stayed long enough for me to feel that strange influence no 
other person has ever had over me. She rests me .” 

“ The dear, happy child ! ” said Mrs. Waite, as if the very thought 
of Sybil also rested her. 

“I did not — once — believe it possible for a human being to be 


TANGLED PATHS. 


395 


so full of a — of so exalted a degree of happiness, that seems some- 
thing apart from animal spirits. I don’t know what it is ; she her- 
self appears unconscious of it ; is it nature ? Religionists are grave, 
and do not tolerate mirth ; their ideas of happiness consist in gloomy 
views of all earthly things,” said Natalie, in a musing tone. 

“ Sybil has that peace which passeth all human understanding. 
Those who serve God with an eye single to their salvation, and 
with fervor, have it in a more or less degree ; a favored soul, here 
and there, blessed with a heavenly vocation, not only lives above 
earthly disturbances, but diffuses the blissful hope that abides in 
them upon others. Not that they are spared tribulation, but be- 
cause they rise above it by power of the grace given them — grace, 
that great, supernatural, divine gift of God, by which at last they 
become Christlike and one with Him,” Mrs. Waite replied, in low, 
fervent tones. 

“ And you, you, madame — are not you one of these ? ” 

“ Dear Natalie ; no. I seek humbly ; I hope to love and serve 
God ; but I belong to the great army of those so placed by the 
Divine will, who have to struggle against natural defects, then 
against things arising out of natural causes, which beset one 'on 
every side like vigilant, cunning foes who lie in wait for our fall ; 
distractions, griefs, and anxieties of the earth, earthy ; temptations, 
angry passions, pride — ah, my child, all this 4 hay and stubble ’ has 
to be burned away before we can offer pure gold to our Lord ! See 
how even now, through the dearest and most sacred of human 
ties, I am tried ! Baste is wild about the war ; he is stirred by what 
he feels to be a noble sentiment of patriotism, and would like to go 
into the army if only to beat a drum. He hangs about the camps, 
gets wild over the marching and parades and the universal stir of 
the land. He told me the other day that St. Sebastian was a 
soldier, and he couldn’t trust himself not to run off some day if I 
wouldn’t consent for him to go and be one.” This was Mrs. Waite’s 
present trouble, and she wanted comfort. 

“ Brave Baste ! ” exclaimed Natalie ; “ but it is true he is too 
young. Ah, if he were only old enough, would you then hold him 
back ?” 

“ Ah, my God ! that is a hard question ; it comes home, Natalie ! 


39 6 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Give my own flesh and blood to be mangled in battle, like those I 
have seen in the hospitals ! torn, blind, speechless, and their like- 
ness to humanity blurred and defaced by cannon-shot and sabre ? ” 

Mrs. Waite covered her face with her hands, and great tears 
trickled down between her fingers. “ And yet,” she added, pres- 
ently, with sublime courage, “ if he were a man, and his services 
needed in so just a cause as the present, I would let him go, with 
the sons of other mothers, confiding him to the care of the God of 
battles. Ah, how those mothers whose brave boys will never come 
back to them make my heart ache ! ” 

“ I hope your heart may be spared a trial like this, madame,” 
answered Natalie, touched by Mrs. Waite’s emotion, and thinking 
of her own boy with a wild, hungry longing that made her heart 
stand still, while she wondered where upon the wide earth he might 
be. But she stifled back her grief out of sight, as was her way. 

** “Sybil came, madame, I should have mentioned at once, to in- 
vite you and all of us to spend a week at 1 Westover.’ She says 
they are settled now, and Mr. Weston will send the carriage for us 
early to-morrow.” 

“Yes, we will go. It will be a relief to go where the air is not 
throbbing and quivering with terrible rumors, and the moans of the 
wounded, and the fierce sound of drums, and all the .rest of it. I 
shall be thankful to get away. I can do no good here. I have 
been to the hospitals, but the white, dying faces, the shattered, 
bleeding forms, the delirious cries for friends that can not come, 
and homes they will never see, overwhelm me, and make me faint 
and sick. Before we go to Westover I will leave orders with Uncle. 
Tom to procure fruits and have delicate nourishment made to take 
to the two nearest hospitals ; Sybil sends milk and flow'ers every 
day. But shall you like to come, Natalie ? ” 

“ I can not tell you, madame, how pleased I shall be to come. 
I am athirst for the smell of the grass, the fresh earth, and the songs 
of birds.” 

“ Then there’s nothing to prevent our going. It will do you good. 
And then, then, Natalie, I have a plan, not hastily formed, which, 
with the blessing of God, I mean to carry out as soon as practicable. 
This excitement is bad for my boys ; the daily frightful scenes grow- 


TANGLED PATHS. 


39 7 


ing out of the war brought to our very doors hurts me, frightens me, 
and I am determined to go abroad with my family — and you, if you 
will come with us. I want to settle down for a few months in one 
of the old French seaside towns; and-- 1 mean to go to Lourdes.” 

“To Lourdes! Ah, I understand. For John? Ah, can it be 
that you believe the strange accounts that come from Lourdes ? ” 

“ Can I doubt facts, Natalie ? Yes, I have faith to believe that 
the same Divine power that gave healing to the waters of Bethsaida 
can also give it to the water of the fountain at Lourdes. The 
Almighty’s power is the same now as then ; nor is His arm short- 
ened that He can not save. It is John’s great desire to go ; he has 
been wishing it for months past, only confiding his hopes to me ; he 
has large faith, and I have promised the pilgrimage. Will you also 
join us, Natalie ? ” 

“ I will go, madame. I meant to go to Hamburg, when able to 
travel, to make inquiries, and attend to my affairs. First I will re^» 
main some little time at Lourdes ; it was there I spent the summer 
when my boy, my Dimitri, was seeking me ; perhaps, perhaps — who 
knows but that he may come there, led by your Providence ? ” 

“And yours, Natalie; yours , too; never forget that.” 

“ Oh, would that I could believe ! Sometimes I think I do ; all 
seems clear; but when I begin to reason about it everything crum- 
bles away and melts like an illusion, leaving it dark around me.” 

“It is not an illusion, Natalie; but the mysteries of God are not 
to be measured and analyzed and weighed by the tests of human 
reason. They are above, and not of it. Human reason is His gift 
to man ; and if, like the angels He created, it revolts against Him, 
like them it falls baffled before Him.” 

“What shall I then do?” 

Her voice was low and earnest. 

“Do you ever pray, dear Natalie?” 

“ I try to ; but my prayers are full of doubts, and ifs ; and I give 
up, confused, oppressed with a sense that it is all a mockery and 
cheat.” 

“My poor child, you must pray with simplicity, putting aside all 
past habits of thought. Say, 1 Oh, my God, Thou k no west my 
needs ! show me the light, for I am in darkness ; lead me, for I can 


398 


TANGLED PA THS. 


not find the way ; and bring me to the truth as it is in Jesus Christ. 
Then turn to that sorrowful Mother, to whom your heart in its 
womanly griefs clings with an inexpressible sympathy, and ask her, 
for the love of her Divine Son, to help you by her powerful interces- 
sion, that His Passion and death may not be fruitless to you for 
whom He suffered. Why will you not see one of our learned 
clergymen, who could explain things to you so much clearer than I 
can ? ” 

“ Alas ! can they tell me more than the books I have read ? 
Oh, no ! my mind is crammed with the knowledge of dogma and 
precept ; it is something beyond this that I need, and without which 
I must remain as I am,” answered Natalie, dejectedly. 

“ How incomprehensible ! ” thought Mrs. Waite, her soul full of 
a large and tender pity for the noble and sorely-stricken woman be- 
fore her. “ This is really something beyond idiosyncrasy ; is it pos- 
session ? ” 

No, not exactly that, but the result of a godless system of educa- 
tion, which had entangled Natalie’s soul, in its roots and filaments, 
beginning with her earliest years, from which it would seem it could 
only be liberated by a miracle. Mrs. Waite would not pursue the 
conversation ; there was a glow upon Natalie’s cheeks and a light in 
her eyes which made her dread fever; so she rose up from her chair, 
drew her head gently to her breast, and kissed the pale broad fore- 
head. 

“ I will look in upon you before bedtime, dear Natalie, to see if 
I have talked you into a fever,” she said. “ I am going now to send 
you up the daintiest of teas, and give my clamoring brood their 
evening repast.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Now that his wife was living abroad, the exigencies of the times 
afforded Mr. Weston a good opportunity to carry out his long-cher- 
ished plan of making his home, the year round, at “Westover” ; 
even if the temporary embarrassment of his financial affairs had not 
made it really advisable for him to do so. But he would do nothing 
now without consulting Sybil. It was strange to see his unuttered 
deference to her every wish, and how adroitly he managed to find 
out her opinions — which she, in her simplicity, and her confidence 
in her father, was never slow to express — before deciding on any- 
thing in which she had an interest. 

There was one thought ever present to the man’s mind which 
toned every act of his daily existence with a broader and more un- 
selfish humanity ; he had by his arbitrary will nearly ruined his 
child’s life, and, not being able to forgive himself, did his best 
to atone for it in every way, by conquering faults that, having 
grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength until he 
had been led by them into what had nearly proved a fatal mistake. 
Sybil, by some intuitive perception, guided by her tender, filial 
sympathies, got an impression of this, and never ceased her endeavor, 
without showing the least consciousness of having guessed his secret, 
to dispel every shadow of the past. He found at last in his daugh- 
ter the home-companionship that he had so long hungered for ; she 
read to him, conversed with him when he was in the mood, with an 
intelligence that surprised him, for Mr. Weston was one of those 
men who placed but small faith in the success of the intellectual 
culture of women, especially of those who were educated at con- 
vents. She played and sang for him the old music and old songs 
that he loved, and was equally patient over the long games of whist 
and chess which he delighted in, and which he was almost invariably 
allowed to win. 


( 399 ) 


400 


TANGLED PA THS. 


Before long Miss Arnold and Edyth — but by degrees, and invited 
by Sybil — ventured to come into the bright, cosy sitting-room of 
evenings, and were well and kindly received ; not only that, but 
told to come whenever it was agreeable to Miss Arnold herself — a 
civility, which, coming from Mr. Weston, so disturbed the poor little 
woman’s nerves as to keep her awake half the night. Sometimes 
the Waites joined them, and while Mr. Weston and his sister held 
long, grave talks over public affairs, as bearing in their results upon 
individual interests, Sybil, Miss Arnold, and the young people would 
adjourn to the ball-room for a jubilee of fun and merriment, Maum 
Barbara and Uncle Tom their discriminating and highly-delighted 
audience. Acquaintances and friends called as usual, some out of 
curiosity, others from a better sentiment, and all equally surprised 
to see how bright and cheerful Miss Weston was, having no idea 
that she could be so charming, and wondered how on earth she 
would survive a country life. They did not place much faith in the 
delight she expressed at the prospect, but gave her credit for great 
tact in trying to make the best of it ; like all worldly people, they 
found simple truthfulness of character a problem too deep to be 
understood. They can prate about naivete^ and profess to admire 
it, as being fresh and pretty, but when it comes to the motif \ even 
supposing that which they call ?iaivete, to be the genuine outgrowth 
of a pure, truthful, simple nature, the worldling is at sea ; he or 
she can not comprehend it below the surface. 

No change could have made Sybil happier than going to “ West- 
over.” The French Minister rented the town residence, furnished, 
and the Westons moved directly after Easter. It was Sybil’s only 
expressed wish to remain in town until after Easter, that she might 
miss none of the Lenten devotions, and participate in those of the 
Resurrection, in both of which her innocent soul seemed to realize, 
more than at any other season of the ecclesiastical year, a nearness 
to the personality of Jesus and Mary, and an insight into that 
“ Kingdom which is not of this earth,” with a humility in which self 
was lost and in which peace reigned. 

Mr. Weston, as usual, never went to church ; but, watchful over 
Sybil, he saw that there should never be the least impediment in the 
way of her attendance, morning, noon, or evening ; and he intimated 


TANGLED PA THS. 


401 


to Miss Arnold one day, “ that Edyth, being a Catholic, was not to 
be hindered by studies, or anything short of sickness, from accom- 
panying her sister to Mass or any other religious exercise of her 
faith when required ; ” which Miss Arnold, although loyal to her 
own Church “ by law established ” and its “Thirty-nine. Articles,” 
did not find it even in her heart to object to, seeing how beautifully 
the “ Roman Faith,” as she called it, was illustrated by the fruits it 
bore in the life of Sybil and that of Mrs. Waite. In truth, Miss 
Arnold was almost transformed by the influence of Sybil’s gentle 
and friendly behavior to her ; she had lost in a great degree her 
scared, nervous fidgetiness ; and as the sunshine of human-kindness 
gradually penetrated her being, it began to dawn upon her that it 
might be better to relax the severe formulas of her rule over Edyth 
and mingle with it a more indulgent sway, which had the happiest 
effects on the wayward child. With Sybil’s cheerful companionship, 
and sympathy shown more by acts than sentimental utterances, the 
lonely woman, whose human feelings were nearly petrified by long 
neglect and isolation, grew to believe that life had some charm and 
solace yet in store for her. 

The family were now settled at “ Westover ” ; and in the sunshine 
and air, with May-blooms everywhere, inhaling with every breath 
the sweet country smells, and hearing only the pleasant country 
sounds ; with plenty of milk, fresh butter, and country delicacies of 
flesh, vegetables, and fruits, Miss Arnold began to live, literally, a 
new life, and gained flesh ; the old English bloom came back into 
her faded face, and she no longer walked like a sand-piper when it 
tries to get out of the way of the incoming surf, but stepped as if 
her feet had a right to tread the earth ; and finally it was revealed 
to her that she had been all along making a scare-crow of herself as 
to dress, and she forthwith proceeded to reform her style, by con- 
sulting with Sybil — in some shamefacedness and confusion, lest she 
should think strangely of her sudden interest in these vanities — 
about the best and most suitable way of making up certain plain, 
pretty dress-patterns that Mrs. Weston and herself had given her 
from time to time. One or two trips to town in the carriage with 
Sybil — who had certain matters to attend to there, which will be 
presently explained — and Miss Arnold’s dresses were cut out, fitted, 


402 


TANGLED PA THS. 


and basted ; and she had not been so happy in many long years 
as she was while making them, with the consciousness full upon 
her that she would really look once more like what she was, a 
lady. 

And to Natalie, too, “ Westover ” had become a place of healing. 
En rapport with nature, the quiet broken only by the rustling of 
leaves, the son^s of birds, and the distant lowing of the kine in the 
low lush meadows, fell like balm upon her troubled life, her fretted 
nerves ; and she looked away into the far-off glories of the sunset, 
or past the wooded crowns of the hills, into the blue distance, with 
a kindling hope in her eyes — for was not strength coming back to 
her, and would she not soon be able to go out into the wide, beauti- 
ful world in search of Dimitri, and find him ? Who or what could 
prevent a mother — what obstacle deter her success in a task like 
this ? 

Ah, it was very sweet to be here with Sybil and the flowers — to 
receive Mr. Weston’s courteous hospitalities, so kindly yet unob- 
trusively tendered — to‘see the shadow of anxious thought which had 
latterly brooded over Mrs. Waite’s pale, gentle face, fade out of it 
— to watch the perfect abandon of the young people, who, unre- 
strained and exhilarated by the vin d'or of a pure atmosphere, found 
enjoyments everywhere and in everything ; and Natalie felt each 
day that she recovered some of her old physical strength and men- 
tal elasticity. To witness the happiness of others is a restorer to 
noble, unselfish natures, even though their own be shattered. 

There was one mysterious spot, however, which had been strictly 
interdicted to the boys in their raids over hill and dale. They were 
not to approach it ; and, at first, with such unlimited range as they 
had the freedom of, they did not mind it in the least. It was an old, 
disused brick storehouse, on the edge of the lawn, half hidden by 
the strip of forest that stretched down toward the cultivated portion 
of the estate,, which had been allowed to stand because it was cov- 
ered with ivy and looked like a picturesque ruin. But one day Con 
and Baste wandered into the woods, and spying a squirrel with a 
tail like a plume, they threw themselves upon the moss at the foot 
of a great old tree to watch his movements in hopes of finding out 
where his nest was, when all at once they heard the sounds of ham- 


TANGLED PA THS. 


403 


mers, and the softer swish, swish, of planes between, so near, that, 
forgetting the squirrel, they bounced up to investigate the cause. 
Following the direction of the sounds, they quickly ascertained that 
they proceeded from the very spot which they had been forbidden 
to explore. But as they stood there, wondering, listening, and 
wishing they might penetrate that screen of ivy to see what was 
going on, they saw a man go in with a hod of mortar, and, soon 
after, their mother and Sybil come out ; by which time they thought 
they had better go in some other direction. They found John in 
his wheeled chair basking under a great tree, with sunshine and 
trembling leaf-shadows flickering and dancing over him, looking as 
if the consciousness of life on such a day as this filled up his ideal 
of earthly enjoyment. Con and Baste were bursting with their dis- 
covery, and were glad enough to find the “old fellow ” there all 
alone, so that they could tell him their secret right off. He listened 
with no little interest, for he too had seen his mother and Natalie 
go there the very day before ; so the old ivy-covered storehouse was 
immediately invested with a mysterious interest to them all, and_ 
they were fired with curiosity to explore its secrets ; but they had 
promised — and, naturally enough, wished they hadn’t — so there was 
nothing left for them to do but to watch it from a distance and 
speculate as to its coming uses. 

“ It looks like 1 Alloway Kirk/ ” said John, a night or two after, 
when they were all out in the air ; one of those nights when the 
sweetest aroma floats up from the growing things, when a fragrance 
like frankincense and myrrh exudes from the gloomy cedars, and 
the wind touches the cheek like balm. “ It looks like ‘ Alloway 
Kirk,’ with the moon shining through the slits behind the ivy, as if 
it was lit up for a ball. ,, 

“So it does; and I think I’ll just go down and mount the old 
roan there in the meadow, and go past it by a roundabout way, to 
peep in, like ‘Tam O’Shanter/ to see if the witches are having a 
dance,” said Baste, with a merry twinkle in his eyes. 

“ Mother and Sybil were there this evening, if you call them 
witches. Any way, they might let a fellow get a peep, you know,” 
added Con. 

“ I’ve just been struck by an idea ! ” exclaimed Baste. 


404 


TANGLED PA THS, 


“I hope it didn’t hurt much!” said John, with his little gruff 
laugh. 

“ No ; it is like salve ; it is delightful ! Uncle Weston is fitting 
up the place for private theatricals.” 

“ He’s so fond of the theatre, I shouldn’t wonder ! ” was John’s 
sarcastic comment; and they all laughed at Baste’ s absurd sugges- 
tion, and none more heartily than he. 

“ See here,” John continued, “it is none of our business, you 
know; and it wouldn’t be right for us to be prying around; but 
guessing is another thing, and I have my own thoughts. I heard 
uncle Weston tell Sybil this morning that she might have that copy 
of Carlo Dolci’s Madonna in the music-room, and she was so glad 
that she ran right off* to tell mother and Natalie.” 

“ What is she going to do with it?” asked Con. 

John said nothing, but nodded his head toward the old ivy- 
covered storehouse. 

Baste gave a long whistle, and Con threw himself back upon the 
grass, saying, “ I believe I’m an idiot.” They had found the key to 
the mystery, and were astonished at themselves for never having 
thought of so plain and probable a solution before. But they wisely 
kept their discovery to themselves. 

For it was a discovery, and a fact. Mr. Weston had not only 
given Sybil permission to have the old storehouse converted into a 
private chapel, but himself employed the workmen to make the 
necessary repairs and improvements. Several old-fashioned, massive 
silver candelabras, which had been consigned by Mrs. Weston to 
the lumber-room as out of date, and four alabaster vases also exiled 
to the same receptacle for the same cause, were discovered by Sybil, 
who went up there one day with her aunt in search of possible treas- 
ures, and appropriated them for more sacred uses than had ever 
been dreamed of. Sybil had costly laces, laces for which large 
sums had been expended for her decoration in worldly festivities ; 
now she rejoiced in them ; for, being hers, could she not put them 
to the holier use of furnishing her altar and draping the shrine of 
the Virgin Mother? But the altar : she wanted a marble one, but 
scrupled increasing her demands on her father’s generosity. Hei 
cogitations between painted' wood and polished marble cost her a 


TANGLED PATHS. 


405 


sleepless night ; and, rising before the sun, one morning, she went 
to the window, and, pushing aside the great white Salvatori roses 
that drooped over it, let the sweet morning air. bathe her face with 
its refreshing touches. Above, the blue sky was flecked with rose- 
tinted floating clouds; the birds sang sweet notes to each other 
•from their sheltered nests or as they flew swiftly through the air ; 
the beautiful sleek cows cropped the grass with a lazy, satisfied look ; 
butterflies were abroad ; and as the first level rays of the sun shot 
out above the distant rim of hills, every dewdrop suddenly flashed and 
glowed like diamonds in a royal crown ; no prismatic tint was wanting 
in their rays ; in the great alembic of nature, each one became a 
liquid sun. 

“ Ah ! ” said Sybil, standing there with a great white rose drooping 
against her cheek, “ how strange I did not think of it before ! I will 
ask papa to let me do as I will with some of the diamonds of the pa - 
rure he gave me for a bridal present ; then I will get Mr. Crofts, who 
knows all about such matters, to take one of the ornaments back, 
and give me what money the diamonds are worth. Mamma said 
they were magnificent, every one of them, but told me she thought 
the aigrette was too heavy for a small head like mine. That is what 
I’ll take, if papa does not object; and oh ! it will do so much for 
God and Our Blessed Lady ! ” 

Mr. Weston did not object ; but told her, as they walked up and 
down the gravel path, she hanging on his arm, that morning before 
breakfast, to “be prudent; for diamonds represented certain stand- 
ard values, and she should make sure that she did not get cheated ; 
otherwise he had no opposition to make to her doing with them 
whatever best pleased herself.” 

“ I will go to Mr. Crofts, papa ; and ride in with you, if you will 
let me. Oh, I am so thankful to you, dear papa, for being so in- 
dulgent ! ” 

“ Crofts is an honest man ; but I think I shall have to go with 
you, and let you explain to him your object in selling your diamonds, 
which in a way might hurt my credit, if only the bare fact got out.” 

“ A thousand thanks, papa ! I did not think of that. Do you 
think I could get enough money for those in the aigrette to pay foi 
a marble altar and some other things — chalice and cruets and an 


406 


TANGLED PA THS. 


ostensorium and a paten ? For you know, papa, the altar must 
have the necessary things with which to celebrate the Divine Mys- 
teries.” 

“ I really know very little about such matters, my child ; but I do 
know something of values, and I am sure you will realize sufficient 
from your aigrette to do all that you wish, whatever it is. But why* 
not let me give you whatever you want to complete the chapel ? ” 

“I would rather not, papa. I have some reasons for wishing to 
do that which I have just explained.” 

“ Certainly, my darling, if it will make you happier.” Never, 
never again would Mr. Weston try in the slightest way to bend her 
will to his ; her reasons, whether explained or not — and her motive, 
whether understood or not — were henceforth sacred to him. This 
was one of the white days of Sybil’s life; for at its close she found 
she could not only accomplish all that she desired about getting a 
marble altar, and the furnishing thereof, but would have a consider- 
able sum over for another object which lay near her devout heart. 
Guided by the advice of Father De Haes and her aunt, she made a 
munificent donation to an Order newly established in Washington, 
in aid of the church they were erecting, and the Rev. Superior con- 
sented to supply her chapel with missionary services on Sundays and 
on holydays of obligation, and on Festivals when practicable, the 
good priest who would officiate to be sent for and brought back by 
Mr. Weston. 

Time showed how much better that diamond aigrette had been 
bestowed than by wearing it as a useless ornament or keeping it 
hidden in a casket, like the talent that was folded in a napkin and 
put out of sight ; for as soon as it was known in the country round 
about that a chapel was opened at “ Westover,” where Mass was 
celebrated every Sunday, and the Sacraments administered, a 
number of Catholics, both foreign and native, scattered about the 
neighborhood, within easy distance, who had almost given up their 
religion through the great difficulty they had in getting to the city 
churches — a difficulty which only those of limited means who live 
any distance from towns or mission churches can understand — 
thronged thither regularly, the only trouble being that the congre- 
gation was, after a season, too large for the “ Chapel of St. Agnes,” 


TANGLED PA THS. 


4 07 


under whose patronage Sybil had placed her pious undertaking. 
Mr. Weston’s contribution, outside, the repairs and reconstruction 
of the old building for its present use, was a stained-glass window, 
behind the altar, on which was delineated the “ Nativity,” and a 
marble scroll set in the wall, on the right-hand side, to the memory 
of Sybil’s mother — “ Cecilia Sybil Weston. JEt. XXIV. Re- 
quiescat in pace,” inscribed upon it. The Madonna, copied from 
Carlo Dolci’s famous painting, hung above the shrine of “ Our Lady 
of Perpetual Succor,” and by and by a melodeon was placed near 
the sanctuary, upon which Sybil played the sweet, solemn plain- 
chants of the Church during the Divine Offices. Before long she 
formed a small choir, whom she instructed with such patient care 
that they were soon able to take part in the simpler musical parts of 
the sacred services. 

Can not Sybil’s happiness be imagined on that festival Sunday of 
the dedication of the Chapel of St. Agnes when, with her aunt, 
Edyth, Clara, and the boys, she received the Bread of Eternal life ? 
They were all there at the “ Marriage Feast,” all except Natalie and 
Mr. Weston ; but these were devoutly remembered in the Holy 
Communion. 

Mr. Weston was not ruined, as he had feared, although he had been 
dreadfully crippled. His sagacious foresight had brought him through 
with honor, and without bankruptcy; and new sources of prosperity 
gradually opened to him, from the fact that the implicit faith inspired 
by his integrity induced the Government to make heavy deposits 
with him, and employ him in negotiating large financial transactions 
at home and abroad, all of which were highly successful. 

Mrs. Waite was energetic in her preparations for going abroad, 
the novel excitement of which was delightful to her children, all of 
them except Baste, who was in quite a tragic state, and declared 
mutinously that he thought “it was just cowardly to run away when 
everybody was fighting or trying to do something for their country ; 
he knew that St. Sebastian wouldn’t have done so, for didn’t he fight 
for a pagan Emperor ? ” 

“ And got shot to death with arrows by him for being a Christian ; 
better for him to have been plowing, than fighting for such a scrub 
of an Emperor ! ” growled John. 


408 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“ But we haven’t got Emperors, have we ! ” exclaimed Baste, 
hotly. 

“ Baste, my boy, I will promise you one thing. If this military 
spirit lasts,” said Mrs. Waite, smoothing back his frowsed hair from 
his flushed face, “you shall go to West Point when we come from 
Europe.” 

“ Then all the fighting will be over. I wish I were a man now, 
I’d show you what I could do.” 

“ You’d show us what you couldn’t do, likely, and come home 
with a cracked head or with only one leg, in the bargain,” said John, 
who wilted and sickened under the frightful influence of those 
stormy times. 

“ Home ! ” put in Con ; “ he’d stand no chance ; he’d be cracked 
up like a chimney-pot in a gale. Come along, and stop with your 
nonsense, or something will be left that you’d like to take. I’m not 
going to pack your trunk. Come, old fellow ; we’ll have a fine time 
teaching the French boys how to play base-ball.” 

But Baste felt deeply injured. He growled and made himself 
generally disagreeable, which no one was to notice seriously, Father 
Tracy advised, as it was a safe way for him to blow off steam ; so 
they all went on, only chaffing him a little now and then, as if he 
was supposed to be in the most seraphic state of mind. His last 
snarl was when the Cunard steamer, by which they were going, was 
nearing the open sea, the motion of which was perceptible as her 
prow rose above and dipped below the horizon line, and the great 
illimitable waste of tumbling, frothing waters Was outspread before 
them ; their going was un fait accompli , against which any further 
revolt would be sheer folly ; so after long silence, neither wondering 
at nor pleased with anything that was novel around him, he suddenly 
broke out : “ I suppose I shall even be expected to eat frogs.” 

“ Of course you’ll eat frogs ; what else will you get to eat in a 
desert island like France?” answered John, sarcastically. 

“ Except stewed snails,” added Con. 

“ Bosh ! ” was the boy’s laconic reply, as with white face and 
trembling limbs he started for his state-room ; the mal de mcr was 
upon him, quenching his warlike aspirations, his sense of injury, and 
his general ill-humor, into a depressed state of humble indifference 


TANGLED PATHS. 


409 


as to the future. His only coherent wish was to be once more 
upon the solid dry land, he did not care where ; he said his prayers 
by snatches, and thought more devotionally of “ Mary, Star of the 
Sea,” than ever before in his life ; in his helpless condition he was 
not ashamed to have a good cry on his mother’s breast, she kissing 
away his tears as they flowed. Baste was the only one sick in cross- 
ing ; the others, including John, enjoyed the bouncing and rolling 
motion of the steamer, and the sights, the sounds, and the smell of 
the sea ; their appetites were sharpened, until the demand for food 
exceeded the supply they were capable of taking in, and they grew 
stronger and merrier every day. If John could only have used his 
legs, his satisfaction would have been complete ; but to look at them, 
thin, shriveled, and dead to all appearance — what human probability 
was there of such a thing as that ? There was no healing in sea or 
air for them. 


It is a lovely June day. The Pyrenees rise blue against the sky ; 
the valley meadows are dappled with sheep, wild flowers are abloom, 
and the windows of the thatch-roofed cottages in and about Lourdes 
have mignonette and pinks growing in them whose fragrance salutes 
the passing stranger like a welcome ; wall-flowers, lilacs, and roses 
fill the air with incense, and the Gave ripples over its stony bed as 
if dancing to its own music. On the other side rise the wild, irregular 
rocks ; above them, against the sky, the gray medieval castle, whose 
stones, if they could only speak, would say : “l have seen the noth- 
ingness of man’s brief greatness: Sic transit gloria mundi ; ” but 
they are silent, and but few heed the lesspn they teach. Lower 
down, among the fantastic stony formations, is the wonderful Grotto 
where, for a sign to the generations, a fountain of living water, in 
obedience to the Divine power, sprang forth out of the dry sands 
where water had never been known before, to commemorate by its 
miraculous healing efficacy the appearance of Mary and her mission 
to a people whose fervor had grown cold in the service of God, and 
whose country was being gradually given over to impenitence and 
open disbelief. 

An interdict had been promulgated by the Prefect of Lourdes to 
18 


4TO 


TANGLED PA THS. 


prevent the assembling of pilgrims at the Grotto, pretending that 
such gatherings were conducive to immorality and political disturb- 
ance, and declaring that everything that had happened was an im- 
posture. The Grotto was inclosed by a wooden railing, and sen- 
tinels stationed to enforce the interdict. Little Bernadotte, the fa- 
vored child by whom the heavenly Apparition had been so often seen 
and conversed with, was threatened with imprisonment and punish- 
ment if she did not keep silence when questioned about the “de- 
lusion,” and she and her family were placed under strict surveil- 
lance, with ruin impending should they transgress the Prefect’s 
requirements. It was to be expected that the powers of dark- 
ness would array themselves against the supernatural facts which 
were awakening France to penitence and good works, and for sev- 
eral days the prudent and timid kept aloof, awaiting the result. 

But a party of Americans arrived, who took up their quarters at 
the hotel, and as soon as practicable sought an interview with the 
good cure of the parish. They had heard in Paris of the present 
difficulties, and, wanting advice, the elder lady of the party desired 
to hear from the cure himself an account of the miraculous affair. 
He could only relate the facts that had come under his own notice, 
without giving an opinion ; the Church had not yet spoken, but 
awaited the Divine will, knowing that if the miracle was of Him it 
would triumph over all obstacles, if otherwise it would come to 
naught. Calm, patient, vigilant, strong, and animated with the 
spirit of God, she waited the fruits which would show the supernat- 
ural origin of the late events, or the reverse. 

Our Americans saw the favored child, Bernadotte, every morning 
at Mass, kneeling behind the shelter of a pillar, or in some incon- 
spicuous place, as unconscious and devout in her innocent humility 
as if she had never looked upon or held converse with the “ Blessed 
among women ” who once sang upon earth : “ He exalteth the 
humble, but the rich He turneth empty away.” A quiet, simple 
little peasant was Bernadotte, whose answers had never deviated in 
the smallest thing, under the most rigid cross-quesHoning, as to 
what she had seen and heard, whether by the harsh Prefect, or the 
gentle curd, and whose countenance always wore the same thought- 
ful, simple calm, except when in the presence of the Apparition ; 


TANGLED PA THS. 


41 1 

when, as many testified who had watched her, it became trans- 
figured. 

Our Americans — a crippled boy in a wheeled chair, of the party 
— went daily to Mass, and approached the Sacraments with great 
devotion ; all of them except one — a tall, pale lady, who had a 
wistful, anxious, expectant look in her face and eyes, as if she were 
waiting for some one. Our Americans — the Waites, and Natalie 
as you must have known all along — nothing daunted by the adverse 
circumstances which opposed the object of their journey thither, 
began a novena for their intention, one of the devotions being cer- 
tain of the Mysteries of the Rosary, which they recited, over against 
the Grotto, on the hither bank of the Gave, every evening after the 
“ Angelus.” Their friend, the cure, thought they might possibly 
meet with some annoyance from the creatures of the Prefect, but 
they did not ; and Baste declared if they had he would have hauled 
his “star-spangled banner” out of his pocket and made them fly 
by waving it in their faces. 

The morning that the novena ended, a man went up to the good 
cure at the altar, where he was celebrating the Holy Mysteries, and 
handed him a slip of paper. As soon as Mass was over he stepped 
out of the sanctuary, and, approaching Mrs. Waite, whispered : 

“ The interdict is removed by order of the Emperor. The news 
has this moment come. The devout Empress obtained the favor. 
Now go, my child, before the glad news gets abroad and the crowd 
begins to press ; take your crippled boy to the Grotto. I will remem- 
ber you at the next Mass, and may Almighty God reward your faith.” 

Now that the moment so long looked forward to was at hand, 
Mrs. Waite trembled at what the results might be to herself as^well 
as to John. Was she presumptuous to expect a miracle? Aild 
should the healing efficacy of the miraculous waters fail in this case, 
would it be on account of their own unworthiness, or because the 
whole thing was a delusion ? Would failure hurt John’s faith ? 

Oh, faithless we ! how many miracles are taking place, by the 
Divine power, of which no cognizance is made in our daily lives, in 
the universe, in nature, far more wonderful than the healing at the 
Grotto of Lourdes, and which arc passed by unheeded, and, even if 
noted, would be as little comprehended ! 


412 


TANGLED PATHS. 


“We are going to the Grotto,” Mrs. Waite whispered to John. 
“It is now open to pilgrims by order of the Emperor.” He 
looked up, his face lit by a hope which almost transfigured it ; but 
he said not a word. 

“We are now going to the fountain of the Grotto, my children. 
Natalie, will you come with us?” 

“If you will permit, madame.” 

“ Oh, my God ! ” thought Mrs. Waite, as a sudden dread of the 
effect that might be produced on Natalie crossed her mind, in case 
there should be found no healing for her boy in the miraculous wa- 
ters — “ I commend all to Thee ; Thou knowest all, and I humbly 
submit myself and those with me to Thy Divine will.” 

Walking behind the little procession, Mrs. Waite recited the Ro- 
sary with fervor ; John, calm and trusting, his hands folded under the 
light affghan that covered him, whispered the Joyful Mysteries as 
Natalie pushed his wheeled chair up the smooth beaten road, she 
having earnestly offered herself for this service. Con, Baste, and 
Clara followed at a little distance, chattering and babbling as they 
came, exhilarated by the sweet, balmy air, the mingling of pleasant 
sounds around, above them the rippling and rushing of the Gave, 
and the old Spanish bell of the church now ringing for the second 
Mass being the most musical of all. 

Arrived at the Grotto, they found the wooden inclosure already 
removed. There was no one there to prevent their entering. John, 
always keenly observant, perceived his mother’s agitation, and whis- 
pered : 

“ Kneel over there, mother, with the others, and let Natalie hold 
me if she will, she is so strong. Will you, Natalie?” 

“ I will be most glad, John,” she answered in low, grave tones. 

They did as he requested. Natalie drew off his shoes and stock- 
ings and bared the poor shrunken legs that had never borne his 
weight since he was three years old ; then holding him in her strong 
arms she knelt by the bubbling fountain and let the water, rippling, 
sparkling, and as clear as crystal, flow over them. I know not what 
was passing in her mind as she knelt there holding the crippled boy, 
for no sound was heard except the whispering water and the whis- 
pering of prayer mingled together. 


TANGLED PATHS. 


413 


“ Stand me up, Natalie ! ” rang out in clear, joyous tones, which 
thrilled every heart present. “ Stand me up ! ” She did not ques- 
tion his will, but involuntarily obeyed, although her heart seemed 
suddenly stilled ; she set John upon his feet, and he stood erect — 
strong, healed ! He walked without feebleness or dread ; he was 
perfectly healed. 

We can not explain how. All the philosophers of the world 
could not explain how, for there are no chemical properties in these 
waters to produce results like this ; there was nothing in any earthly 
science to show how such a thing could be, any more than in the 
days when God sent His Angel to “ trouble the waters of the pool 
of Siloa” when the lame and sick went down into it and came forth 
healed. There were the facts ; and here was this fact ; the boy 
who had been brought hither had been a cripple from his infancy, 
his lower limbs helpless and without sensation or life, and by faith 
he had been made whole by a manifestation of the power of the 
Almighty, not in a partial and imperfect manner, but in His own 
grand, perfect way, entirely and without flaw. 

Mrs. Waite, overcome with emotion, clasped him to her breast, 
giving thanks to Heaven ; Natalie, overcome at last, fell upon her 
knees, and, lifting up her hands, exclaimed : “ My Lord and my 
God, I believe ! ” It would be impossible to describe the exalted 
joy, the awe, the profound gratitude that filled the hearts gathered 
there around the waters of the Grotto of Lourdes. 

“ Hang up my carriage somewhere : I’m going to walk back,” 
said John. “ There, Con, there’s a ragged stump sticking out be- 
tween the rocks ; good-bye, old wheels ! Hang her up. Oh, if I 
could only see Our Blessed Lady one instant to thank her ! ” he 
exclaimed, overflowing with thankfulness, and full of strange, new 
life. 

“ Are you sure of yourself, my boy ? ” said Mrs. Waite. 

Ct Oh, mother ! are you sure that the sun is shining up there in 
the blue heavens ? How can I not be sure of God’s work when I 
stand, walk, and feel for the first time since I can remember, well. 
Oh, Blessed Lady of Lourdes ! I am thy servant this day, forever. 
Do you see that ?” he whispered, pointing toward Natalie, who still 
knelt, her head bowed, and great tears — yes, tears at last — flowing 


4H 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


from her eyes. The rock of her unbelief had been smitten, and 
the healing waters of penitence sprang forth in the thirsty desert 
of her weary life. She wished to remain there, she told Mrs. Waite, 
who gently laid her hand upon her shoulder when they were ready 
to go. Yes ! silence was best for a soul like hers, a silence in 
which she could contemplate, as one suddenly restored to sight, 
the things whereof she had heard, but did not comprehend until 
now. 

Con and Baste and Clara were almost afraid of John. If he had 
risen from the dead they could scarcely have been more astonished 
than to see him walking like themselves. Their hearts were full 
of emotion, which they did not even seek to express to each other. 

They returned to the church, and having offered their thanks- 
giving they went into the good curb's house, who was filled with 
wonder when he heard Mrs. Waite’s account of the miracle, and 
learned that John had walked all the way from the Grotto. 

“ Oh, my dear children ! it is too much ! And to think it should 
happen on the very day the interdict is removed by the Emperor, 
as if Our Blessed Lady would consecrate the act ! Praise be to 
God forever ! But, my dears, are you not hungry ? Will you not 
take breakfast with me ? Come, be pleased to do so ; I have just 
had a contribution of fruit and fresh eggs from the country ; it will 
make me very happy to share them, my good American friends, 
with you.” 

They were hungry, especially John, with his fresh, new health ; 
and Mrs. Waite accepted the hospitality of the good cure , seeing 
the gratification their doing so would be to him. After breakfast 
she returned to the Grotto, now thronged with people, in search of 
Natalie, but she had gone back to the hotel. 


CHAPTER X. 


The good people of Lourdes had been very observant of the 
American family living at the hotel. They had vague ideas of 
Americans, having seen but few at that period, and had them 
strangely mixed up, in their own minds, with savages and infidels. 
But few persons were coming into the small town of the valley of 
the Haute-Pyrenees at this time, on account of the threats of the 
Prefect, who seemed to be having everything his own way, and the 
barricade which he had caused to be erected around the Grotto of 
the miraculous fountain ; even little Bernadotte, to whom Our 
Blessed Lady had vouchsafed to appear, and conversed with, being 
under the surveillance of the police, and a prisoner in her humble 
abode. Hence the people had more leisure to observe these new 
objects of interest. They soon discovered that all Americans, at 
least, were neither infidels nor savages, by the pious devotion these 
showed at Mass and Vespers; and presently it leaked out, probably 
from the cure's old sister, who had charge of his domestic arrange- 
ments, that they gave generous alms, which were distributed by the 
cure for the relief of the needy sick and the destitute ; and when 
they were seen, sheltered from general view, by a clump of alders, 
kneeling every fine evening on the grassy banks of the Gave oppo- 
site the Grotto, saying the Rosary, the lame boy in his wheeled 
chair always in their midst, their interest deepened into respect, and 
many a friendly nod and pleasant smile, and sometimes a pretty of- 
fering of flowers, greeted our Americans from the cottage doors and 
windows as they passed by. 

One day the doctor — Doctor Michaud — was called in by Mrs. Waite 
to see Clara, who had a cold, with fever, which he said would require 
very simple treatment, and only a few days’ confinement to the house. 
The kind and friendly physician, attracted by John’s intelligent face, 
and seeing him always in his wheeled chair, naturally made some 
inquiries of his mother as to his case, which led, with her consent, 

(4i5) 


4i 6 


TANGLED PA THS . 


to an examination of his crippled limbs. Very tenderly, yet very 
carefully, did Dr. Michaud examine into the case ; but he shook his 
head over it, and told Mrs. Waite privately that “there was no 
earthly hope,” and gave a learned opinion about there being a de- 
ficiency of lime and other life-giving things in his system, which 
made a cure impossible. But she had heard all this before, and it 
had only made her more anxious to get to the fountain of the Grot- 
to, in whose waters there was a chrism of healing, a balm as of Gilead, 
for those who had faith as “ of a grain of mustard seed.” And be- 
fore long, every one in Lourdes knew what had brought our Ameri- 
cans to Lourdes. The dogmatic Prefect would have liked to come 
down upon them with his gendarmes , for in his infidel heart he 
trembled at the sight of that crippled lad in his wheeled chair, lest 
the Blessed Lady of Lourdes should, in spite of all his precautions 
and efforts to bring her into disrepute, heal him by her powerful 
intercession. 

“Ah !” whispered the pious peasants to each other, “they have 
brought him from across the seas to Our Blessed Lady, and she will 
cure him.” And Bernadotte prayed for him ; not that the humble- 
minded child thought that her prayers would be of greater efficacy 
than another’s, but simply because she had been praying for the 
sick and sorrowful all her life. And the good cure had made a me- 
mento for him every morning at Mass. And when John was after- 
ward cured, as I have already described, and the news spread 
abroad, there was great wonder and rejoicing. “ Who will doubt 
now ! ” said the people, one to another, “ since Our Lady of the 
Grotto has shown her pleasure by this miracle, on the very morning 
that the Prefect, by order of the good Empress, has been obliged to 
tear down his barricades.” And they wondered if he wouldn’t — 
they felt sure he deserved it — be consigned to one of the cells in 
the old medieval fortress up there upon the rocks, for his having 
taken so much upon himself, as if things were like they used to be 
under the “ Directory.” Their indirect hope that such might be the 
case was human nature ; I don’t think the best of us grieve much 
when the wicked come to grief. I can’t tell you what became of 
the Prefect, except that he received a reprimand, and was removed 
to another department, a sadder, possibly a wiser man. 


TANGLED PATHS. 


41 7 


In their joy the simple-hearted peasants brought violets, and wild 
flowers, and curds, and fresh-laid eggs, and little scraps of wood- 
carving, and pretty pebbles from the Gave, and a pair of new wooden 
shoes, for John, now that he could walk, which they offered, to show 
their good-will to those whom the Blessed Lady had so highly favor- 
ed. Natalie spent much of her time in church, in deep and speech- 
less yet not tearless humility, believing all of the wonderful truths 
upon whose threshold she stood, and wondering at her past blindness. 
Yes, tears flowed at last from those eyes which no human grief had 
ever had power to wring from them before — tears of penitence, 
whose balm heals the wound that makes them flow. 

The good cure made a particular statement of all that had oc- 
curred at the Grotto, the instantaneous healing of the boy, and the 
conversion at the same moment of a skeptic, and had the proces 
duly and formally verified by Dr. Michaud and the two persons who 
had been cured, the one physically, the other spiritually, and by 
Mrs. Waite and one or two other persons about the hotel who knew 
how hopelessly lame the boy was before the miracle, and forwarded 
it to the Archbishop of Paris. And when, in a day or two after, 
Mrs. Waite left Lourdes, into which hundreds of pilgrims and the 
curious were daily pouring, for the fame of the miracle had gone 
abroad as on the wings of the wind, the cure gave her a letter of intro- 
duction to his Grace of Paris, Archbishop Darboy, who had signified a 
hope that she would call upon him, with her family, when she arrived 
in that city. For this pious servant of God, who was a few short 
years afterward martyred by the savage Communists of Paris,* 
wished to hear all about the miracle from her own lips, and look 
upon those who had been so wonderfully favored by the Divine 
compassion. 

Having arrived at Paris and rested a night, a carriage was called 


* It is a consoling reflection to American Catholics that the American 
Minister, Mr. Washburne, made every effort to save the Archbishop’s life, 
but could get no further concession from his infuriated enemies than a per- 
mit to furnish the patient martyr with a few comforts which his age and 
condition required. Mr. Washburne is not a Catholic, but let us trust that 
Almighty God will reward him with the gift of faith for his acts of mercy 
toward His faithful servant in his extremity. 

18*. 


4i8 


TANGLED PATHS. 


after breakfast the next morning to convey Mrs. Waite and her 
family to the archiepiscopal residence. They had attended Mass 
at the church of St. Sulpice, that being nearer to their apartments 
than any other, where, although strangers in a strange land, they 
felt themselves as much in their “ Father’s house” as if they had 
been at home, for here was the same altar, the same Divine Sacrifice, 
the same language of prayer and praise, the same Oneness and Unity 
of Faith. It was grander, ah ! far more superb and grand in its 
architecture and decorations of high art than the churches of their 
far Western land ; but was not Heaven, also the dwelling-place of 
Him who abode here, more inconceivably splendid even than this ? 
and yet all seemed fitting, for was He not the same everywhere, in 
the rude wooden tabernacle of the poorest chapel of the New 
World as in the gem-set tabernacle of gold and ivory of the royal 
basilicas of Europe — throned upon the bosom of His Virgin Mother 
in the stable of Bethlehem, or sitting in unveiled glory at the right 
hand of the Eternal Father ? The richest temple that could be raised 
by the art of man, decorated with the most precious spoils of land 
and sea — with sculptures more cunning and perfect than the early 
masters of Grecian art ever dreamed of — with pictures throwing 
into shadow the divine works that have for centuries held the world 
amazed — would be empty and cold without that Presence which 
dwells upon our altars, the glory of the House of God, the Food 
and rest of the soul, the Bread which it “ eats by the torrent ” to 
strengthen it when about passing to the other shore that lies hidden 
from our mortal eyes. Some such reflections as these must have 
passed through the mind of Mrs. Waite as she, surrounded by her 
family, knelt before one of the beautiful lateral altars of St. Sulpice 
while the Holy Sacrifice was being offered. 

His Grace the Archbishop was at home, and had no sooner re- 
ceived Mrs. Waite’s card than he sent to invite herself and party to 
his presence, and received them in a manner which placed them 
immediately at their ease, giving his blessing to each one of them. 
Courteous and benign, with a little sparkle of French vivacity run- 
ning through his sentences as he said pleasant things to the young 
folks, to whom he addressed himself, asking their names, their 
age, and how they thought they would like Paris, and evidently 


TANGLED PA THS. 


419 


pleased with their frank, modest answers. He had said nothing 
particular yet about the miracle, and Mrs. Waite had simply referred 
to it when she introduced John, by saying: “This, your Grace, is 
my boy who was so many years a cripple.” 

“ Aha, my child ! and so you are quite well now ! ” he said rest- 
ing his hand upon John’s head, while his eyes dwelt with kindly in- 
terest on the sweet, boyish face raised to his. 

“Yes, sir; Our Lady of Lourdes has cured me,” answered he, 
bravely yet modestly. 

“ Imitate the virtues of Our Blessed Mother, my child, that is all 
she asks in return,” remarked his Grace ; then he touched a bell, and 
a servant came in from the ante-room. “ If you will permit, 
madame, Pierre will conduct the young people to the garden, where 
Mother Babette, my old housekeeper, has some fruit and other nice 
things ready for them under the trees ; ai)d be sure, Pierre, to show 
them the kittens, and make the bulfinch draw up a bucket of water 
for their entertainment.” 

Nothing loth, the children only waited to hear their mother’s as- 
sent and expression of thanks, when they trooped out after the 
valet, their wholesome appetites on edge for Mother Babette’s 
promised cheer. She was an odd-looking, spare, alert old creature, 
with keen black eyes, and her face as brown and shriveled as a 
withered apple, except the nose, which was out of all proportion, 
large and red. She had a respectable moustache, and wore a high 
Normandy cap, and black stuff dress with white collar and cuffs. 
If Baste hadn’t felt responsible for the reputation of American po- 
liteness he would have giggled when he first saw the old house- 
keeper, and tried to have made the others do the same ; but he was 
discreet, and simply lifted his hat, leaving John to be the spokesman of 
the party ; and when he addressed her in French, her shaggy eye- 
brows went up from over her sharp eye, and they sparkled with wel- 
come. She told them that his Grace had sent word that he wanted 
her to spread a little feast in the garden for some American children 
who were come to visit him, and she wondered how she would ever 
get on with them without understanding a word they said ; they 
laughed, and Mother Babette laughed too, and then led them to the 
table under the lilacs, loaded with fruits, sweetmeats, and thin cakes ; 


420 


TANGLED PA THS. 


eating and chatting, they were all as merry as if they had been in 
the old play-room at home. The kittens had been brought out in 
their basket, filled with clean straw, to get the air, and were duly 
petted and admired, and Clara was allowed to have them all in her 
lap at once, to her great delight, until the mother cat, who had been 
•prowling for mice, suddenly appeared on the scene and with a fero- 
cious meow ! sprang to the. rescue of her offspring, frightened Clara 
to such a degree that she dropped the fluffy, mewing little things in 
a scuffling heap upon the grass. Mother Babette thought their 
bones must be broken, every one of them, and while she let off 
volleys of provincial dialect, vied with the cat in her frantic efforts 
for the well-being of the frightened little animals. 

44 I’ll never touch French kittens again as long as ever I live ! ” 
exclaimed Clara in English, in rather an hysterical mood. The 
boys laughed and enjoyed the commotion, according to boy nature; 
^tnd presently, finding that her darlings were safe, Mother Babette 
laughed too, and proceeded to show them her bulfinch and his 
tricks. 

44 Now tell me, my child, ” said the Archbishop, after the door 
closed upon the children, 44 all about the double miracle that, I 
hear, was wrought at the fountain of Lourdes.” 

“ Your Grace has seen my boy, whose crippled limbs were in- 
stantly healed ; but here,” Mrs. Waite said, taking Natalie’s hand, 
44 is one whose spiritual blindness was cured at the same moment.” 

44 Thanks be to God, and to Our Blessed Lady who is the channel 
of so many of His graces to His creatures ! You have been highly 
favored, my child,” said the good Prelate, with emotion ; 44 have 
you yet been received into the Church ? ” 

44 Not yet, your Grace ; I am waiting to be instructed, to be led,” 
she answered, in low, gentle tones. Was this Natalie, whose reason 
had been her God, whose intellectuality her deity ? Instructed ! 
She who had studied the religions of the world as causes that 
had revolutionized mankind and the empires of the earth, and had 
of late studied the dogmas of the Catholic Church, hoping, from 
what she saw of the results of that faith in the lives of those she 
loved and trusted, to be able to find something whereon she might 
rest her storm-beaten heart ; but, not having sought the Truth 


TANGLED PA THS. 


421 


aright, had failed of the end she sought ? Yes, this was Natalie, 
transformed by the grace of God — re-created, as it were, and the 
idols which had kept her soul in thrall all these sorrowful years she 
now knew were' not of “ fine gold and brass,” but idols of clay, 
which fell broken to pieces around her by the powerful intercession 
of the Mother of the Redeemer, who would bring all for whom He 
suffered death to the Truth, and into that Fold of which He is the 
Head. 

A long and deeply interesting conversation ensued, during which 
the saintly Prelate did not seek to conceal the emotion to which all 
that he heard moved him, and he himself offered to instruct Natalie 
and prepare her for admission into the Church, an offer which she 
gratefully accepted. They left the archiepiscopal residence pleased 
and gratified with their visit, and on their way home the boys de- 
scribed Mother Babette and all that she had done for their entertain- 
ment, not omitting the episode of the kittens, and declared that, 
altogether, they had had the j oiliest time they had known since they 
left Washington, and should like to take Mother Babette, kittens, 
bulfinch, and all, home with them. 

After a few days Natalie received baptism, docile and humble as 
a little child in whatever pertained to the mysteries of faith as 
revealed to His Church by Christ Himself ; she accepted all, noth- 
ing doubting, convinced at last that the human wisdom of ages 
could never penetrate them, for how can the finite compass the 
infinite ? It was now that she understood in their true light the 
sufferings of Mary and her Divine Son, and felt that the bitter pas- 
sion of life had been consecrated and dignified by Their human 
agonies ; she knew at last how to unite her sorrows with Theirs. 
And in this she found a solace which drew her nearer and nearer to 
the Cross ; and the wounds of her life, now offered with the Wounds 
of Jesus, sent forth sweet incense to heaven, even as in Eastern lands 
certain trees that are gashed with the knife exude balsams whose 
fragrant aroma sweetens the air. In proportion to Natalie’s former 
unbelief was now her faith and humility ; deep and tender thoughts 
possessed her mind of the wonderful patience of God and the 
merciful ways of His Providence toward His creatures. This 
woman had, indeed, been born again, into a new life, as much so as 


422 


TANGLED PA THS. 


if she had been dead and had come out of the darkness of the grave 
to a renewed existence. And it is only those who are converted 
from the blindness of error to the One True Faith who fully com- 
prehend the mystery of the new birth into that Kingdom of Christ 
which “ is not of this world/’ There was but little change in 
Natalie outwardly, except in the devotional phase of her life ; 
always reticent, she did not talk of her interior thoughts, but Mrs. 
Waite noticed that in the place of that proud look of stoical 
endurance that had always showed itself in her pale, beautiful 
face, there was a more peaceful expression crowning its sadness ; 
and she also observed, without appearing to do so, that often, 
when they were together in church, offering their devotions in the 
Divine Presence, tears flowed from her downcast eyes, unheeded, 
upon her clasped hands and upon the beads of her Rosary as one 
by one they slipped through her fingers ; tears of deep thankfulness, 
which mingled with those of her great sorrow, for Natalie had not 
yet found her son. 

Meantime Mrs. Waite, quite as much interested as her children, 
spent some hours daily in sight-seeing. Sometimes Natalie accom- 
panied them ; but oftener she went out alone, with a vague hope in 
her heart that in the crowded places, the boulevards, or the gardens 
she might see the face that her human, hungry mother-heart was 
seeking. She never questioned the possibility of her not knowing 
him, grown as he was by this time ; she felt sure, with an unreason- 
ing certainty, that she would recognize him wherever they should 
meet. And the gay, light-hearted people who frequented the beau- 
tiful gardens and promenades, often turned to look after the tall, 
graceful woman in black, whose pale, sorrowful, yet sweet face 
touched them with a momentary sympathy and interest, while they 
wondered who she might be. 

Each day furnished some new delight to our travelers, the 
younger ones of whom thought they could never grow weary of the 
wonders of Paris. They saw the fountains play at Versailles, they 
went to the Bois de Boulogne and reveled in all they beheld there ; 
the grand old churches with their matchless sculptures, ancient 
tombs, and pictured windows were visited in turn ; the Louvre, the 
Colonne de Vendome ; in short, nothing of prominent interest which 


TANGLED PA THS. 


423 


they could appreciate was missed ; and knowing the young Waites, 
it is easy to imagine that their tongues were rarely still, their nat- 
ural disposition to talk being keenly set on edge by their intense 
American curiosity, a trait which blended largely with their intelligent 
desire for information. Their existence seemed like a bright, pro- 
longed holiday. They met the Emperor and Empress, with the 
Prince Imperial, one day when out driving; there was a great dust, 
and the royal equipage passed them rapidly, but they had time to 
note, as John sententiouslv remarked, that its inmates “ did not 
look a bit stuck up ; ” indeed, I am almost ashamed to admit, being 
that they were Americans, that they were dreadfully disappointed 
to see their royalties looking like other people, and very simply 
dressed. 

“Pshaw!” said Con; “that’s nothing. I can see as much as 
that any day at home.” 

“You expected to see something like a circus chariot, with peo- 
ple in it dressed in things all spangled over, and feathers and crowns 
and ermine ? ” suggested John. 

“ Well, no, I didn’t ; but I thought maybe they’d have on 
crowns ; I thought they had to wear their crowns,” said Con, with 
his lazy, good-natured laugh. 

“ Something like the king and queen of diamonds upon cards,” 
put in Baste. 

“ I thought the Empress was always dressed up in satins and 
laces and velvets, and a crown full of great, large diamonds,” ob- 
served Clara, who had a natural love for the pomps and vanities. 

Mrs. Waite laughed, and explained to them that such magnificence 
was only seen now and then, at coronations. John and his mother 
went together every few days, to inquire what progress was being 
made toward the completion of a rich silver lamp and chains, their 
thank-offering to Our Lady of Lourdes, which was to be suspended 
in the Grotto. One morning, having received Holy Communion at 
one of the early Masses, they called in at the silversmith’s, and to 
their great joy he exhibited the lamp to them, finished, a most 
beautiful piece of workmanship, so skillfully wrought that the artistic 
design was fully interpreted. Leaving the shop, they hastened home 
to breakfast, and Mrs. Waite having told them all about the lamp, 


424 


TANGLED PA THS \ 


of which they heard now for the first time, invited them to go with 
her to the flower-market, which they had not yet visited, to buy each 
one a garland of lilies, violets, and the rarest roses that could be 
found, emblems of the purity, humility, and mystical life of Mary, 
to be hung in the Grotto of the miraculous fountain as votive offer- 
ings. And now Natalie, always so quiet as to everything she did, 
brought a package from her apartment, which, she told them, con- 
tained her offering, and wished them to see it and allow it to go with 
theirs. It was an altar-cover of cloth of gold, richly embroidered in 
beautiful devices of vines and blossoms, the center-piece inwrought 
with jewels, and its edges finished with a deep golden fringe. It 
caught the sunlight streaming through the window as she spread it 
out upon a table, so that the eyes of those who looked admiringly 
upon it were fairly dazzled. 

“It is my wish to have this spread upon the spot where Our 
Blessed Lady appeared to Bernadotte, on the anniversary of that 
event. These gems,” added Natalie, touching them, “ were in a 
necklace that belonged to my mother, which was sent to me by the 
messenger from Hamburg. They were the most precious of my 
worldly possessions, for which reason I offer them where I owe 
more than I can ever repay.” 

“ Your offering is altogether a sacred and beautiful thought, dear 
friend,” said Mrs. Waite, pressing her hand. 

“And I want you all,” she said to the children, who did not know 
her sad history — it was by her own desire that they did not — “I 
want you all to pray to the Blessed Lady of Lourdes that I may find 
a treasure long lost to me, and also ask her intercession for an im- 
penitent soul.” 

They promised fervently. It was the happiest of days they had yet 
known in Paris, for it was brightened and sweetened by a conscious- 
ness of things that were not of the “ earth, earthy ; ” and when, late 
in the afternoon, their offerings were safely packed, and their letters 
to the good cure at Lourdes written and posted, and all consigned 
to the swift express, their satisfaction was complete. 

Mrs. Waite’s letters from home filled her with grief ; the war had 
assumed such magnitude as to preclude all hope of its speedy ter- 
mination. Mr. Weston advised her to place her children at school 


TANGLED PATHS. 


425 


either in Paris or Berlin, and remain abroad for a year or so ; which, 
after a long talk with Natalie, and a conference with Archbishop 
Darboy, she determined to do, knowing that her business affairs 
were in safe hands. Her old friends, the Bradfords, had returned to 
Washington, Mr. Weston further wrote, and wanting a furnished 
house, he thought the best thing she could do would be to rent hers 
to them. This met a difficulty at once which had given her no 
little worry, and she immediately wrote, placing house and servants 
at their disposal ; an offer which was accepted without delay. Then 
inquiries had to be made about schools for her children, Natalie 
having told her that she should be obliged to go to Hamburg, and 
thence she could not tell where, as she intended to follow, whereso- 
ever it might lead, any probable clue that presented itself, in search 
of her son. “ Do not — do not, madame, my best friend, think me 
ungrateful to leave you ; my heart is hungry for my child, and the 
fever of unrest that it gives me, makes me no longer able to do jus- 
tice to the dear children. Say you forgive.” 

“ Forgive, Natalie ! It is what I myself would do ; and sorry 
though I be to lose your companionship, I wish you God-speed, my 
child,” said Mrs. Waite, embracing her and mingling her tears with 
hers. 

“ I think — I feel that I shall find him,” she murmured. 

“The Almighty Disposer of human events has His own mysteri- 
ous ways of bringing things to pass; we have only to ask, and wait, 
trusting.” 

“Yes, I waited many years in bitterness; but now I have learned 
how to ‘ wait, trusting.’ ” 

It was not a difficult matter in a city like Paris to find Catholic 
institutions of. the very highest order, with a system of education 
which more than fulfilled Mrs. Waite’s most exacting requirements. 
This matter settled to her satisfaction, she was making arrange- 
ments to spend the summer with her family in the Swiss and the 
German Tyrol. One morning the Archbishop, who had grown quite 
attached to his American friends, called at their hotel, and request- 
ing to see Mrs. Waite alone, conveyed to her an invitation from the 
Empress Eugenie to visit her at Compeigne the following day, the 
gay court and the usual invited guests not being expected there foi 


426 


TANGLED PA THS . 


several days. The Empress had heard of the miraculous cure of 
the American boy at Lourdes on the very morning that by her 
prayers she had prevailed upon the Emperor to send down the or- 
der for the removal of the barricade around the Grotto, and also of 
the brutal Prefect, and she had a great desire to see one whom the 
Blessed Lady had so signally favored. 

“ I trust madame finds no reason to decline accepting ? ” 

“ No, no, your Grace ; I hesitate only because I — perhaps I 
can not clearly explain — I so dread John’s getting to feel the least 
personal consequence on account of the miracle ; he might — human 
nature is so weak — get to be vain, if he is too much noticed, of 
having been the recipient of so remarkable a favor.” 

“ I understand, my child, and approve,” replied the humble- 
minded Prelate. “ This has already been spoken of, and your boy 
will not be questioned by the Empress, who desires to hear from 
yourself all about it. There will be no ceremony, no etiquette, 
and I will be there to present you.” 

On these terms Mrs. Waite consented to go. She felt neither 
flattered nor honored personally, knowing that the wish of the Em- 
press to see them was due entirely to her devotion to the Blessed 
Virgin, and at dinner she told her young people that they were to 
be permitted to visit Compeigne, the country-seat of the Empress 
Eugenie, the next day, where they would meet Monseigneur the 
Archbishop of Paris. The news was received with such acclama- 
tions of delight that Mrs. Waite began to wonder at their seeming 
insatiable capacity for enjoyment, for nothing came amiss to them, 
healthy, innocent, merry creatures that they were. They went part 
of the way by rail, and at a certain station a footman whom Mrs. 
Waite now remembered having seen on the box with their Majes- 
ties’ driver, assisted them from the car and conducted them to a 
plain carriage which he said had been sent for them, into which they 
got without question, and were driven ofl. It would take too much 
time to describe the grand entrance through which they passed into 
a magnificent park, or the fountains and terraces and parterres and 
great wide-spreading trees — none of all this beauty was lost to 
them, however, you may be assured, and they were almost sorry 
when the coachman drew up his horses under the poi'te-cochere of a 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


427 

handsome chateau whose picturesque architecture was enhanced by 
the background of trees which nearly surrounded it. 

Our young Americans were not in the least daunted on finding 
themselves in a royal abode, for had they not been to the Presi- 
dent’s house and the Capitol at home ? A lady met them, and con- 
ducted them across a wide, circular hall and through a suite of 
rooms to a smaller apartment in which the large French windows 
opened on a garden rich in floral loveliness, whose fragrance the 
wind wafted in like floating incense. There was a beautiful lady, 
with fair hair and blue eyes, dressed simply in white, with violets in 
her hair and at her throat, standing with the Archbishop before a 
new piece of antique statuary whose rare design she was explaining 
when they entered. At the same moment a lad about the age of 
John sprang through one of the windows, and then suddenly 
stopped, seeing that his Grace, of Paris, and strangers were pres- 
ent. The lady welcomed them with a graceful gesture of her hand, 
and the Archbishop presented them ; she then nodded to the boy, 
who stepped forward and was introduced to the boys and Clara sim- 
ply as “ My son ; ” he at once took the young folk in charge, and 
led them to one of the windows, where it did not take long for 
them all to become acquainted. 

This fair, beautiful lady in white, with violets in her hair and at 
her throat, was the Empress Eugenie, and on this occasion she had 
chosen to put aside all the formula and etiquette of court usages, 
that her visitors might feel perfectly at their ease. Not that the 
boys or Clara were in the least aware of the august presence they 
were in ; for their mother, feeling assured that they would transgress 
none of the laws of politeness, thought perhaps if they knew where 
and with whom they were they might involuntarily put on some 
gauchcrie or other from the very newness of the situation. The 
Empress invited Mrs. Waite to be seated ; she did not decline the 
offered tabouret, but sat down without embarrassment, as she had 
often done by invitation of and in the presence of the President of 
the United States, which on this occasion was the most proper and 
well-bred thing she could have done. 

“ Fine, healthy children, madame ; and good I am sure. His 
Grace has been telling me of them. Which was the one cured ? ” 


428 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


“ The first one introduced, tnadame ; he who stands nearest your 
son.” 

“ Ah, wonderful ! ” the voice tremulous, and the beautiful eyes 
moist with tears. The Archbishop left them together, these two 
devout women and servants of Mary, to talk together, heart to 
heart, with reverent, tender speech, of the wonder wrought by Her 
at the miraculous fountain which at Her bidding had sprung from 
the dry sands of the Grotto at Lourdes. While they were thus en- 
gaged, “ my son,” intent on entertaining his strange guests, said : 

“ Would you not like to come out and see my Arab pony, and 
the golden pheasants?” 

“Yes, we all like horses; but may she come too?” said John, 
taking Clara’s hand. 

“ If mademoiselle will,” was the polite reply ; “ I will show her 
my English rabbits and a marmot.” 

Then they all trooped out through the window, upon the ter- 
race, down the marble steps, past the fountain, and out under the 
grand old trees, where the air was full of sweet smells, and the sun 
glinting down through the leaves made mosaics of green and gold 
upon the smooth turf, starred everywhere with wild violets. An or- 
der had been sent to the stables on their way here, and presently a 
groom appeared leading a miik-wliite creature with long silky mane 
and tail, eyes of fire, and pink, sensitive nostrils ; his hoofs were 
small, and set upon ankles so slight that the wonder was how they 
bore his weight ; his coat was like satin, and every movement as 
graceful as that of the fabled Pegasus. The enthusiastic admiration 
which greeted the beautiful animal abundantly gratified his young 
master. Then he led them away to his rabbit-warren, the aviaries, 
and last of all to a dairy such as our young Americans had never 
seen in all their life before, where they found as if by enchantment 
a feast of strawberries, cream, cake, and nectarines spread for them, 
which they enjoyed heartily, and wondered what business this boy's 
father was in, and why everyone seemed to be so obsequious to him ? 

“ We have had a jolly time ; thank you very much,” said John, 
as they left the dairy. 

“ I am glad you came ; it has been jolly to me too,” was the 
good-natured response. 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


429 

“ I just think of it : I have not heard your name yet. Mine is 
Sebastian Waite.” 

“And mine,” the lad answered, with mirthful eyes, “is Louis — 
Louis Napoleon Buonaparte.” 

“There!” exclaimed Con, “ I had a suspicion of that! You’re 
a nice fellow, anyhow ; even if you are a prince.” And they all 
laughed heartily together. 

“ We don’t have princes and emperors, and all that, in the United 
States ; so you won’t mind, I hope, if we don’t do exactly as other 
people do who come to see you,” said Baste. 

“ I am too glad to be like other boys once in a while to mind ; 
and I hope you will come again,” said Prince Louis. 

“We will try to, sometime,” John answered, for himself and the 
others. 

And all the way along the young Prince was plucking a rose here, 
some half-blown buds there, now a fragrant lime-blossom, white 
violets, pansies, and whatever beautiful flower struck his fancy. 
Having collected as many as his straw hat would hold, he ran into 
a garden pavilion where such things were kept ready for immediate 
use and returned in a few minutes with a beautiful moss basket, 
into which he had emptied the flowers, then presented them with a 
pretty grace to Clara, who received them with unaffected delight. 

Mrs. Waite arose to take leave as soon as her children, with 
their youpg host, came in, but the beautiful lady in white asked a 
moment’s delay ; opening a little ivory basket of Chinese workman- 
ship that had been half hidden by the flowers upon the gilded stand 
where it lay, she took therefrom several small souvenirs of their visit, 
which she presented to each of our irreverent Americans, to John 
an exquisite oval medallion of mother-of-pearl plainly set in gold, 
upon which was painted the Apparition of Our Lady of Lourdes, the 
tinted opal hues of the shell forming a background which made the 
figure appear as if surrounded by clouds of glory. 

“ Ah, madame,” said the boy, his voice tremulous with emotion, 
“ this is most beautiful ; and I am thankful to you for it ; I can not 
tell you how thankful, unless you knew all that she has done for 
me.” 

“ I have heard all about it, my child,” said the lady, laying her 


430 


TANGLED PA THS. 


fair hand upon the lad’s head for a moment ; “and I hope this little 
souvenir will remind you to pray to Our Blessed Lady of Lourdes 
for France — and for my boy,” she added in a whisper. 

“That I will, madame,” was the low, earnest response. 

Then she gave, in the same kindly, gracious manner, a gold 
medal of the Immaculate Conception to each of the boys, and to 
Clara a little rosary of mother-of-pearl that had been blessed on the 
Holy Sepulchre. It was all so beautiful, everything that they had 
seen and heard, up to the very last moment, that they almost imag- 
ined they were in Dreamland. The Archbishop had been obliged to 
return to Paris to meet an engagement, and the leave-taking over, 
the happy party got into the carriage to be driven back to the station. 

“Now, mother, I say, who is that beautiful lady?” asked Con, 
as soon as they were fairly out of hearing. 

“I suppose she’s — what do you call them, mother? — a maid of 
honor ? ” added Baste. 

“She’s beautiful; just like our Sybil,” said John, thoughtfully. 

“ Who did you say she was, mother ? ” 

“ I have not said who ; you have not given me the least chance 
to answer you, boys,” said Mrs. Waite, laughing. “ That lady is 
the Empress Eugenie, and here is her photograph, colored so finely 
that it looks like a miniature on ivory. She presented it to me 
before you came in.” 

“ Whew ! she’s — bully ! — there, it’s out ; but that’s what I mean ! ” 
exclaimed Con. 

“ Well, well ! It beats all ! But I am satisfied to know that 
kings and queens and princes are no better than other folks ; only 
some, like the Empress Eugenie, may be prettier and more pious 
than the rest of them.” 

“And don’t take on airs 1 I declare, mother, that fellow — ahem ! 
the Prince I mean, was as good-natured as a butcher-boy !” added 
Con. 

“ Why butcher-boy ? ” asked John, like a cynic. 

“Oh! I don’t # know,” laughed Con; “but I do like him; and I 
invited him to come to Washington some day, and pay us a visit.” 

And so they chattered on their homeward way, Clara satisfied to 
inhale the fragrance of her flowers, to laugh, and to listen. 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


431 


A letter from the curd of Lourdes came in one morning with 
breakfast, telling Mrs. Waite of the safe arrival of their offerings, 
and that they had been disposed of according to their pious wishes ; 
that the heavenly Apparition had again appeared to Bernadotte, 
and Natalie’s cloth of gold with its jeweled embroideries had been 
spread as a carpet upon the rock for her feet to rest upon, and that 
on that very day the heavenly Vision was again seen by the favored 
child ; that thousands were pouring into Lourdes ; that the eyes of 
the blind had been opened, the lame had walked, and the almost 
dead brought to life. <£ Repentance and Penance ” was the 
mission of the Queen of the Apostles to France ; it was her message 
to the people, who were ever drifting away into indifference and 
open infidelity. 

Much more said the good curd in his letter, but we must pass on, 
we who know the grand results of the miraculous Vision in the 
awakening of France, and how her people were stirred as by one 
impulse to penitence and good works, until the ages of Faith seemed 
to be revived and the air trembled with the hosannas and prayers 
of thousands and tens of thousands of pilgrims from every land, not 
only to Lourdes, but to other famous shrines consecrated to the 
Virgin conceived without sin. And we have seen how, after the 
whirlwind of war and carnage passed over the fair land, filling it with 
tribulations and flame, and horrors that chill the blood to think of, 
strong in faith and patient in suffering, a blessing seems to have 
fallen upon it, a life-inspiring recuperation, unknown to the history 
of the world, by which it is rehabilitated in a better and stronger 
existence than before. 

After a few weeks Mrs. Waite and her children went to Mentone, 
and thence to the Tyrol. Natalie had found the separation very 
painful, but sought strength in the Sacraments ; and, having re- 
ceived the Archbishop’s blessing, she went away to Hamburg, where 
there was indeed something awaiting her, a letter from Dimitri to 
the banker asking for news of his mother, and informing him that 
he had enlisted in the United States army in a cavalry regiment 
(Company Four), Colonel Macy commanding. Her business ar- 
rangements were soon made* and Natalie took passage on the first 
steamer that left for the United States, her heart full of new and 


43 2 


TANGLED PATHS . 


troubled thoughts ; for now that she had this almost certain clue to 
guide her, how did she know but that he might fall in some dreadful 
battle before she reached the American shores ? 

Mr. Weston, one afternoon, brought out a package of letters to 
Sybil, and a piece of strange news. The Waites were going to re- 
main abroad for an indefinite time, and Natalie had come back. 

“ Natalie ! Oh, papa ! where is she ? Why did you not bring 
her with you ? ” 

“ I will tell you presently,” said Mr. Weston, settling himself in a 
large arm-chair of East India workmanship, and speaking in his usual 
even, methodical way. “ I was more than usually busy this morning, 
when my messenger came in to tell me that there was a lady in the 
bank who wished to see me. I was about excusing myself, but Pat- 
rick added that she had letters which she wished to place in my 
hands. Impatient at the interruption, I got up, intending to make 
the interview as short as possible, but when I stepped out of my 
office door, imagine my surprise when I saw Natalie — the last person 
that I should have expected — standing there. I gave her warm wel- 
come, and invited her in, but she told me that she had but a few 
moments to spare, and had only interrupted me to deliver the letters 
from your aunt, to send her dear love to you, and to tell me that 
she had discovered at last the whereabouts of her son, who had en- 
listed on his arrival in this country in a New York regiment, which 
she had but an hour before ascertained was encamped on the other 
side of the Potomac. I congratulated her heartily. I must say that 
I never saw so grand an emotion, so indescribable an expression as 
that which lit up her countenance ; there was no tremor, no excite- 
ment, but a happy calm of assurance that it was only necessary to 
cross the river to find her son and fold him in her embrace. She 
told me how kind every one at the War Department had been to her, 
directing her from one official to the other, until at last she found 
Colonel Garesche, who not only gave her a pass and exact informa- 
tion as to where the regiment lay encamped, but placed his ambu- 
lance and an orderly at her disposal. ‘ I shall have no trouble, Mr. 
Weston ; give my dear love to Sybil, and tell her that to-morrow I 
hope to see her and present my boy to her ; for see ! I had forgot- 
ten to tell you ! The good Colonel has given me also a line asking 


TANGLED PATHS. 


433 


a week’s leave for him.’ 1 handed her into the ambulance, and she 
drove off, with a far-away, happy look of expectation and hope near 
its fulfillment beaming in her face.” 

“ That is delightful news, papa. I suppose at this moment she is 
sitting with her Dimitri in his tent, listening to all that he has to tell 
— the dear, patient Natalie ! Now, papa, let us read the letters.” 

And there, out on the veranda, with the soft south wind drifting 
through the honeysuckles and sweet clematis that embowered it 
while the bees hummed their drowsy song, and the mocking-birds 
in the maples filled the air with their wild, wondrous music, and the 
bright humming-birds glistening in their plumage of green, crimson, 
and gold, flitted in and out like winged jewels, Mr. Weston and Sybil 
read their letters, Sybil hers between smiles and tears and little out- 
breaks of irrepressible delight, Mr. Weston his with a grave, per- 
plexed air. 

“ It was the sea-air,” he said at last, refolding Mrs. Waite’s letter, 
in which she had related all that had happened at Lourdes in con- 
nection with John’s miraculous cure.* “The sea voyage of course 
strengthened John, and developed some vital energy that had long 
lain dormant ; then his imagination was worked upon, and a com- 
plete change of climate helping, he is cured. I am heartily glad 
that the fine little fellow is cured, but I really can not look upon it 
as anything miraculous.” 

“ Dear papa ! why can you not believe ?” said Sybil, laying aside 
her letters and standing by his side, while she smoothed his now 
white hair back from his forehead with tender hand. “ It seems to 
me that if one looks at such things from the stand-point of God’s 
power it is impossible to doubt. The Jews doubted, and scoffed, 
and turned into ridicule the very miracles of our Lord, but the 
facts remained : the blind were restored to sight, the lame walked, 
the sick were suddenly healed, and the dead brought back to life by 


* A granddaughter of Mr. Donahoe, of Boston, affected precisely in the 
same way, was taken by her father, a merchant of Montreal, Canada, to 
Lourdes, and was instantaneously healed at the Grotto ; she walked back 
to the hotel, leaving her crutches at the Grotto. This account I had by 
letter, and also read of the cure in the Ave Maria. 

19 


434 


TANGLED PA THS. 


His power, and no man of their Rabbins or their wise men could 
explain how.” 

Sybil had never before attempted to argue about religious matters 
with her father ; indeed it was a subject tacitly avoided by both, and 
this was the very first time she had approached it ; but she was 
so brimful of joy and devotion to the Blessed Lady of Succor, that 
out of the fullness of her heart her lips spoke. 

“ If it makes you happy, my daughter, to believe that John was 
cured by a miracle, I am glad that you so believe,” he answered, 
gently, glad to avoid discussion. 

“ But Natalie, papa ! Natalie is not a person given to hysterical 
emotions and impressions, you know ; she is a woman of learning, 
and all that, yet at the same instant that John was cured the last 
barrier of her unbelief was shattered, and she was converted.” 

“ That is quite another thing. There are psychological forces in 
nature that we do not yet comprehend ; these were possibly acted 
upon in her case ; by the sudden surprise of John’s cure ! ” answered 
Mr. Weston, quite unconscious of how he was contradicting himself. 
Sybil leaned over and kissed his forehead, without a hint of having 
observed it ; she only said : 

“ What a great rest it must be to Natalie to have a strong, eternal 
principle to lean upon, after all her sorrows — sorrows that had no 
solace ! ” 

“ Yes, I suppose it is,” he replied, coldly. 

“ Do you think, papa, that we may hope to see Natalie to-mor- 
row ? And what do you think of Aunt Waite’s plans ? ” 

Mr. Weston laughed. “ Which shall I answer first ? In order, I 
suppose. Well, if things turn out as Natalie hoped, I should say 
yes. As to your aunt’s plans, I think they are the very best she 
could have made. But really, my child, I am ready to beg for a 
crust of bread, I am so hungry ; ah ! there’s the dinner-bell.” 

“And I have a surprise for you,” said Sybil, putting her hand 
through his arm as they went toward the dining-room, “but you 
must be patient until you finish your soup.” 

“ Very well; if you succeed in surprising me, my dear, you may 
tax me for your charity-box.” 

“A bargain!” she answered, with a merry little laugh. Miss 


TANGLED PA THS. 


435 

Arnold and Edyth were already waiting ; and, Sybil having asked 
the blessing, they seated themselves around the table. 

' Mr. Weston enjoyed his surprise, and paid the tax upon it most 
willingly, for it was a superb cauliflower, his favorite vegetable, which, 
owing to climate or soil, or some other cause, had never before been 
successfully cultivated at Westover. 

Sybil’s last thought that night before falling asleep, was: “ To- 
morrow I shall see Natalie, happy in her newly-found Faith, happy 
in being reunited with her son ! what a happy morrow to look 
forward to ! ” 

But both that day and the morrow were dreary indeed to Natalie. 
She had had no difficulty in finding the encampment of the regiment 
she sought ; her heart beat wildly when she came in sight of the tents 
gleaming white in the sunshine ; she stretched out her arms toward 
them, then dropped them, folding her hands tightly together, think- 
ing how foolish she was. Dimitri had written her word that he had 
taken her maiden name, and she would only have to ask for him ; 
they would know by the roster who she meant. But, alas ! only 
one week before, he, with quite a number of others, had volunteered 
— as their term of service, six months, had expired — to join a march- 
ing regiment then ready to go into the field, for three years or dur- 
ing the war. No one could tell her whither the regiment had gone, 
or by what route, or its destination ; the order had come from the 
War Department, and they had “ folded their tents” and marched 
off in the night. One supposed it had gone to North Carolina, an- 
other thought to the Maryland border, another to the far West. 
But it was gone, and her boy with it. With a dull ache in her heart 
she returned to Washington, and learned from Colonel Garesche the 
destination of the regiment and the route she must pursue to reach 
it ; he gave her another pass, and expressed an earnest hope that 
she would meet with no further disappointments, though he kindly 
warned her that the troops were being continually shifted to meet 
the military exigencies that arose daily. Writing a few lines to Mr. 
Weston, telling him of her disappointment, and sending tender words 
to Sybil, Natalie mailed the letter on her way to see Father De Haes 
for the purpose of preparing for Holy Communion in the morning. 
Her first impulse had been to rush to the depot and go to Baltimore, 


436 


TANGLED PA THS. 


but she remembered that the steamer by which she was to go would 
not leave her dock until four o’clock the next afternoon, and she felt 
that she not only needed rest, but that solace which the Divine 
Sacraments alone could impart. 

On her way to Fortress Monroe, Natalie’s hopes revived ; she 
was going on official information, and with no uncertainty ; why need 
she be cast down, she thought, when only a few hours, soon sped, 
or perhaps, a day or two at most, lay between her and the dear ob- 
ject of her search ; and had she not learned something of the science 
of waiting? Had she not been waiting through long, dark years? 
what, then, were a few hours or days ! And, best of all, had she not 
One on whom to lean now, who would support and strengthen her 
though “the floods passed over” her, and though she should have 
to enter into the very shadow of death to find her boy ! 

But the regiment was not with the Army of the Peninsula ; a tel- 
egram from the War Department had met it before landing at For- 
tress Monroe, and it was embarked on transports which sailed off 
seaward, no one knew whither, and nobody seemed to have time to 
answer her when she sought information, for there was a great for- 
ward movement going on which gave no one time to attend to any 
other business than his own. 

“ Oh, my God ! ” her soul cried out, “ make me strong to bear 
this. Am I never, never to find my son ; or hast Thou Thine own 
way of bringing us together ? Oh, Dimitri ! perhaps it will be only 
thy dead face I shall look upon, thy lifeless form that I shall clasp 
to my breast ! Mother of Sorrows ! help thou me.” 

And so Natalie’s search went on from day to day, from month to 
month, as she pursued him from place to place wherever she heard 
a rumor, vague or not, of the ioth New York Regiment having ar- 
rived, or being ordered ; but all in vain, for she seemed like one who 
followed a phantasm. She found once, in the hospitals, where she 
was a daily visitor, a wounded, dying soldier of the ioth, who had 
belonged to Dimitri’s company ; he knew him well, he said — a fine, 
brave fellow, who had been promoted corporal, then sergeant, for 
his gallantry ; but he had been taken prisoner in the same battle in 
which he had received his own death wounds. She tended the dy- 
ing man, soothing and comforting him as best she could, writing his 


TANGLED PA THS. 


437 


messages for him to his far-off home in Maine, and taking charge of 
some little mementoes, poor trifles, but fraught with deathless remem- 
brance and love, which were to be sent to the dear ones on whose 
faces he would never look again ; until, as the day dawned, his eyes 
closed, and the brave heart ceased to beat. Then, after long delay, 
she got from Washington a “pass” to take her through the lines, 
and made her way to Richmond, where, having reported herself to 
the governor of the military prisons there, and waiting and waiting 
until her heart grew sick, she was told that such a man had been 
exchanged with a lot of other Federal prisoners several days before. 
But perhaps it was a mistake ; “ Would they let her go through the 
‘ Libby ’ and ‘ Belle Isle ’ to ascertain if he might not be at one or 
the other place ? ” she begged. This was refused ; there was the 
man’s name on the prison roster, and there it was again on the list 
of exchanged prisoners ; she must have some other motive for de- 
siring to see the military prisons, they said ; women had been very 
smart spies in this war, and it would be better for her to get back 
while she could. On her way to the train by which she was to go, 
she saw her husband, superbly mounted, gallop in hot haste past her. 
He was dressed in rebel gray, and wore a General’s uniform. Stag- 
gering into the cars, having shown the rebel Provost’s pass through 
the Confederate lines, she sunk into a corner seat, and pulled her 
thick veil over her face. “ Oh ! God grant,” she moaned, “ that he 
has indeed been sent back ; for if the two should meet they would 
know each other as surely as if their names had been called out of 
the air ; and then, then, who or what could withhold them from 
deadly conflict ! ” 

Natalie grew weary of her fruitless wandering, and, heart-sick 
from hope deferred, she returned to Washington. In the intervals 
of waiting she visited the military hospitals there, thinking per- 
chance to find him among the sick or wounded, and while she 
scanned with hungry eyes the suffering, dying faces in the various 
wards, and questioned surgeons and nurses, she was not idle ; for 
though she might never find her son, here were God’s creatures who 
needed help ; in their bruised, broken, disfigured bodies she saw the 
image of their Redeemer in His Passion, and for His sake she de- 
voted her time and means in mitigating, by every device, mental 


438 


TANGLED PATHS. 


and actual, that her woman’s heart could think of, their sometimes 
indescribable sufferings. And many a soul was gently led by her to 
s€ek the consolations of the Faith she professed, and received its 
Divine consolations at the hands of Father De Haes or some other 
Catholic clergyman, before the supreme hour that closed their mor- 
tal career had come ; the only reward she hoped for being that her 
son, under the same circumstances, would find the same help. 

The pale, beautiful woman — so gentle, yet so strong to comfort 
and to cheer, whose sorrow was written in her face under a calm 
resignation, a silver crucifix upon her bosom, her countenance al- 
ways partially shaded by a crape veil ; was blessed whenever she 
came, and looked for with eager expectation by the poor wounded 
fellows, whom weakness and suffering made childish. But at last a 
morning came without her usual presence at either of the hospitals 
she had so faithfully visited. “ Where is she ? Will she come pres- 
ently ? ” were the questions that passed through the wards. 

“ She went away in the night, boys,” the surgeons and nurses told 
them, as cheerily as they could, knowing their loss, and dreading its 
effects upon some of them. “ She received a letter, and had to go ; 
but I think she will come back after a while.” And many a man 
who had not blanched or faltered at the cannon’s mouth turned his 
pale face to the wall and wept. 

Yes, Natalie had got a letter from Mr. Weston, inclosing a few 
lines from Dimitri himself, which had been forwarded to his care from 
Rosecrans’ division, written weeks and weeks before — a defaced 
scrawl, written in pencil upon his knee — in the hope that by some 
chance it might reach her, to tell her, in case they should not meet, 
to remember that he had never forgotten her, but loved her dearer 
than life, and would sacrifice everything upon earth, except honor, to 
fly to her. “ But when the war is over, my mother, who shall sepa- 
rate ns while life lasts? To-morrow a great battle is to be fought; 
after that we go into winter-quarters. I have been promoted from 
the ranks. You shall never be ashamed of your boy. 15th Pa. 
Cavalry. My old Reg’t has been cut to pieces.” 

Oh, so long ago ! The battle had been fought and tens of 
thousands killed ! And no news had come since ! Mr. Weslon 
wrote her word that a wounded soldier in the Columbia Hospital at 


TANGLED PATHS. 


439 


Washington had sent for him, and given him the letter, Lieutenant 
Sturmhoff having put it in his care to deliver or forward in case he 
fell ; as he was on the sick list from an old wound, and was to be 
sent East with many others. 

Through the bitter winter weather, braving every danger, Natalie 
took the Western train that went out at 9.40 that same night. 
Commending herself and her boy to the powerful protection of Our 
Blessed Lady, her rosary the only companion of her lonely journey- 
ings, she rested not, day or night, until she reached the army quar- 
ters beyond Corinth, and found her way to the tent of the Colonel 
of the 15th Pennsylvania Volunteers. A cold, stern-looking man, 
brusque of manner, and with but scant courtesy, he read the letter 
she handed him before he bethought himself to invite her to be 
seated ; having finished reading the letter, he refolded it, and looked 
up, to see her standing, pale and attentive, with a face whose sad- 
ness touched even his rugged heart. He questioned her, and, hav- 
ing heard what she had to say, he could tell her nothing certain, 
but looked over his regimental roll, tracing the names with his 
rough finger; stopping at last, he looked up full into the anxious 
eyes that watched his every movement. 

“ Here is the name : Lieut. Dimitri Sturmhoff,” he said slowly. 

“ That is the name ; where shall I find him ? ” she asked, start- 
ing up. 

“ ‘ Missing ’ is over against his name,” was the low reply. 

Was she turned to stone that she said no word ? Had hope sud- 
denly died? Was her heart breaking? Numb and dizzy, she arose 
to go, repeating as she did so one only word, “ Missing.” 

“ Take my arm, madame, and lean upon it,” said the Colonel, 
springing to Natalie’s side, seeing that she staggered, and groped 
with outstretched hand. Then he called to his Orderly to fetch a 
glass of whisky, which he desired her to take. It was the only 
thing he could think of, and she swallowed a few drops of it, which 
revived her somewhat. 

“ It is the cruel fortune of war, madame. I pity you — from my 
heart, I do. I lost my own brave boy in that battle ; shot to death, 
he fell before my eyes — and I, I could do nothing.” 

That was all he could say, and there being nothing more for her 


440 


TANGLED PA THS. 


to do, Natalie retraced her way back, going this time direct to 
Washington ; for, in spite of all, a faint hope revived in her heart 
that he may have been gathered up with the wounded of other 
regiments and be sent there to be nursed. And so many dead ! So 
many missing ! so many mothers, wives, and orphaned children, 
weeping in desolate homes over the land ! 


CHAPTER XL 


Two years have gone by. The war still raged, filling the land 
with tribulation, and dread, and devastation, and horror. No man 
could foresee when or how the conflict would terminate, and while 
the sickening details of the great strife made the bravest hearts 
quail, there was no surcease of will and effort toward the bitter end 
on either side. It was the world-old sorrowful story of the struggle 
and bloodshed of men, tears and heart-break for women who wrung 
their hands in desolate homes for husbands and sons struck down 
in the flower of their strong manhood and lying dead on battle- 
fields or in the green tangled morasses of the South. 

Two years had gone by, but no further news of her lost son had 
come to Natalie. Except when in church, devoutly assisting at the 
Divine rites, or to receive the life-giving Sacraments, she was visit- 
ing the hospitals. A secret hope still animated her, and wherever a 
fresh harvest of mutilated, disfigured, bleeding men were gathered 
in from some new battle-field for one or more of the Washington 
hospitals she was sure to be there, eagerly curious in her search, 
but giving tenderest care to those who most needed it. Mr. Wes- 
ton and Sybil protested against such unsparing sacrifice of health 
and rest; her old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bradford, appealed to her 
most strenuously to leave it all and come away with tl^em to, some 
far-off Northern retreat, where the din of war and the reports of 
battles lost or won could not reach them. “ But why should I,” she 
asked, ‘‘when this work lies before me? I am not ungrateful, dear 
friends ; but be patient ; by and by I will come to you, and you 
may do with me as you will.” In deep humility of soul she some- 
times took herself to task ; “ If in ministering to these suffering 
ones, O Christ ! I think too much of my own selfish hopes, 
pity me ; and thou, Mother of Divine Mercy, be my stronghold 
19* (44i) 


442 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


and help, for thy human heart knows what the desolation of 
mine is.” 

The surgeons and nurses all knew her, but knew nothing of her 
private griefs ; every one was too busy to be over-curious, and the 
fact of her being well known by, and the friend of, influential cit- 
izens was sufficient to produce the impression that from motives 
of humanity, religion, or benevolence, she had given up the 
world to devote herself to this work. There were many such in- 
stances — even outside the Religious Orders, whose members were 
everywhere, by the rules of their vocation — nursing in hospitals, 
hovering like angels around the battle-fields, tending the sick and 
dying in ambulances when armies were moving ; of “ eccentric 
women,” they were called, who did zealously much of the work that 
Natalie was about. Only she had larger means than most of them, 
which she dispensed without ostentation in such ways as were most 
needful, making no distinction between the “blue” and the “gray” 
in her watchful, gentle care. 

Meantime a new trial had come to Sybil. Mrs. Weston returned 
home very unexpectedly, and the arcadian peace of “Westover” 
was at an end — came home a poor, broken, querulous invalid, to be 
nursed and cared for. Confined almost entirely to her bed or her 
chair, such was the power of her will that she contrived to make it 
felt most uncomfortably throughout the establishment. At intervals 
she would insist on Sybil’s unpacking and unfolding all her Parisian 
finery, descanting upon styles, prices, and fabrics in her old way, 
and on these occasions generally ended by declaring that “ this 
humdrum country establishment should be broken up ; that the 
French Minister must give up the town-house in October,” etc., to 
which no opposition was offered by Sybil, no remonstrance by any • 
one, as to say a word against her plans threw her into such parox- 
ysms of fury with all around her that she appeared little short of 
insane. Mrs. Weston had not remained long with the Slidells after 
going abroad. “ Madame Slidell,”* she told Sybil one day, “ was 
too devote to her religion ; she was as strict as a nun, and made 

* Mrs. Slidell was one of the most devout Catholics and one of the most 
devoted Christian mothers it was ever my fortune to know. Lovely in all 
her family relations, and distinguished for her culture and elegant manners, 


TANGLED PA THS. 


443 


her children pray as much as she did ; she soon found out that her 
ladyship did not approve of her, so she left them and went to 
Munich, where she caught her death of cold.” But until she could 
go back to their house in town she worried herself into such fevers 
about giving dinners and getting up fetes champetre that before her 
arrangements were half completed she would be so ill as to be in 
danger of death. Now, indeed, Sybil had need to put on her armor 
of patience, and courage, and submission to God’s holy will, for the 
time had come when she would require the help that He alone 
could give. There was nothing pleasant, or sentimental, or easy 
in the task before her ; there did not exist even a natural tie to 
make it less irksome. She had an arrogant will, a proud, thankless 
heart, an unreasonable nature, and withal a diseased body in which 
every nerve was strung to torture, to contend against, to bear with. 
But bravely and sweetly, with Heaven’s help, she met the trial, faint- 
ing with weariness sometimes under it, sometimes stirred almost 
beyond human endurance, sometimes with tears even wishing that 
she might change her cross, sometimes resentful under the sting of 
unmerited reproaches, but never failing in duty, and growing more 
patient as the days wore on. Mr. Weston proposed to relieve her 
by hiring competent nurses, seeing that her face often wore a pale, 
weary look ; but Sybil would not consent ; and at last Mrs. Weston 
herself seemed to be touched by her tender, patient care, and made 
some slight efforts to restrain her unreasonable temper and exacting 
demands. One night she drew Sybils face down to her and kissed 
her, saying : “ Sybil Weston, you are either a fool or a true Chris- 
tian to bear with me as you do.” 

“You suffer very much at times, mamma, and I wish I could do 
something for your relief when the paroxysms come on.” 

“ I wish somebody could ! ” she replied, with a bitter laugh ; 
“ my life is a torture to me. I hope Purgatory is no worse. Give 
me my drops, Sybil.” 

Mrs. Weston, then, had hope of Purgatory, but on what founda- 
tion she did not explain, having lived on in mortal sin, neglecting 


Washington society lost not only one of its brightest ornaments when she 
left the country, but also a most beautiful example. 


444 


TANGLED PA THS 


every sacred duty, sacrificing everything to the world, for years 
past. Can such enter into those expiatory regions of hope, where 
there is suffering without sin ? 


Do not suppose that Sybil Weston’s hand was unsought all this 
time. Her beauty, her virtues, and her father’s wealth, brought 
several proposals of marriage — some of them with interested mo- 
tives, looking toward the rich inheritance that would be hers in 
time ; while others were brilliant, unexceptionable, and in every 
respect eligible. But she refused them all, softening her refusal as 
much as possible, but leaving her suitors no hope whatever. Mr. 
Weston grew uneasy, as it was the first wish of his heart to see her 
happily settled ; but he would never interfere again. He only said, 
one evening, when they happened to be alone together : “ I fear, 
my child, that you have thoughts of being a nun one of these days.” 

“ I shall never leave you, dear papa,” she answered, in low, firm 
tones ; and with this assurance he determined then and there to 
rest satisfied. ' 

Mrs. Weston had heard from Barbara and Edyth a great deal 
about the little Chapel of St. Agnes, and about Father Paul ; her 
curiosity was excited, and she questioned Sybil, who took great 
pleasure in describing it, dwelling on details, in hope of striking 
some chord in her listener’s heart that would vibrate heavenward. 
Then she would hear more concerning Father Paul, and one day 
told Sybil that she “had a mind to see him ; only he must not talk 
religion. It is so dull at Westover that the sight of even a priest 
will be refreshing.” 

“ This is a great end gained,” Sybil thought, “ even to consent to 
see a clergyman on any terms ; the rest must be left to our Lord.” 

Father Paul’s gentle and dignified manners made a favorable 
impression upon Mrs. Weston, and when he took leave she invited 
him to come again. 

<c He’s a very nice person, Sybil ; he doesn’t grate upon me like 
a file, and fling the thunders of Mount Sinai at a poor sick body ; 
yes, he may come again,” she observed after Father Paul had gone 
away. And Sybil redoubled her prayers, and Father Paul offered 


TANGLED PA TILS. 


445 


a “ remembrance ” at Mass every morning and the good nuns at 
far-away Holy Cross besieged Heaven for the conversion of Mrs. 
Weston. 


One day, after a dreadful battle that had been fought a few miles 
away from Washington — another Manassas — the result, another rebel 
victory — when every vehicle, public and private, was laid under con- 
tribution by the Government, the number of army ambulances being 
insufficient to bring in the wounded, Natalie hastened out to the 
Columbia Hospital with a large roll of soft old linen that Sybil had 
brought her the day before, knowing how useful it would be, and 
how difficult it was sometimes to procure lint and bandages. Hope 
of finding her son had nearly died out in her heart, and now she 
was doing solely for God’s sake what before she had done partly 
for his. All self-seeking had vanished, leaving' a halo of resignation 
around her lost happiness. Partly screened by a large desk, she 
sat unrolling the old linen, and assorting it for use, when her atten- 
tion was arrested by a conversation between the surgeon and one 
of the nurses, who was waiting for some medicine he was preparing. 

“ They were found,” he was saying, “ where the fight had been 
hottest, lying together, the Federal with his head upon the breast 
of the rebel, and an exploded shell near them.” 

Natalie’s heart beat in quick, uneven pulses, and very faintly, 
as if listening. ‘ Yet why? Such details were of every-day occur- 
rence. Yet now she listened with strained ears, for a memory had 
come back to her with the sudden swiftness and shadow of a phan- 
tom, almost blasting her, of a scene in distant Russia : a boy gazing 
upon a portrait of his father, that he might know him if they ever 
met, to avenge the wrongs of the mother whom he loved without 
knowing her, and from whom he had been stolen in his infancy; two 
fierce, strong, vindictive natures, incapable of withholding ven- 
geance upon each other should they ever meet. “ Oh, God ! ” she 
groaned in spirit, “ suppose, suppose these two should be Andrea 
and my son ! better, then, that I had never found him ! ” But she 
made no sound ; she did not stir ; and if the surgeon or nurse had 
looked toward her they would have thought she was dying, she was 
so white and motionless. 


446 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ I thought they were both dead when they were brought in about 
daylight,” the surgeon continued; “but they were only uncon- 
scious from loss of blood.” 

“ Do you think there’s any hope for them, doctor ? ” 

“ The younger one may puli through, but the Reb., besides hav- 
ing his sight entirely destroyed, has got a bullet in his brain. His 
arm is broken — just splintered; it will have to come off.” 

“ Poor fellow ! he does rave so in some foreign language, as if he 
wanted something; but I can’t understand a word. It’s not French, 
nor German, I hear enough of both to know. Then he gets quiet, 
and lays for an hour at a time without saying anything.” 

“ He’s a powerful man, and he may become violent, Mrs. Kind- 
ers ; I’ll send one of the men to keep watch. How is our young 
Fed?” 

“ Comfortable since his wounds were dressed, and sleeping when 
I came away.” 

“ He’s got a broken shoulder, and a pretty bad sabre-cut, but 
he’ll do.” 

The nurse went out with the medicine. Natalie swiftly followed 
and overtook her at the foot of the staircase. 

“Where are those two patients of whom you and Dr. Crosby 
were just speaking?” she asked. 

“ Come with me, ‘Sister Dorcas’ ” — that was the name they had 
given her — ‘‘I am going to them now. They are ifi the two small 
rooms on each side the hall. I am glad you are here, for we are 
going to be crowded with bad cases, I fear.” 

Natalie made no answer; she could not speak ; there was a cer- 
tainty upon her that a supreme and awful moment was at hand. 

“ Look in there if you please, Sister Dorcas, and see if that 
young fellow is asleepf while I give my other patient his draught. 
They must have been fighting hand-to-hand when they fell. Oh, 
Lord ! this is a cruel war ! ” said Mrs. Kinders, pointing to a half- 
open door near by. 

Natalie paused upon the threshold, uncertain and faltering. Yet, 
why linger so ? Did she fear the coup-de-grace would be given to 
the last spark of hope that lay smouldering still under the ashes of 
former disappointments ? Was she growing to be a monomaniac 


TANGLED PATHS. 


447 


over this one earthly tie of affection ? She had read of such cases. 
She remembered having once seen an old, white-haired woman, who 
had been watching the harbor of Bremen from her window, which 
looked seaward, and burning a light in it through the nights, year 
after year, expecting her son, whose ship was expected at a certain 
date, but never came, and never would come. She remembered 
looking with sad surprise on this first human woe she had ever seen, 
and how she had turned her face away, weeping, when the lonely 
watcher said : “ Jan is coming to-day, certain ; the ship was spoken 
two days ago by the Zuyder Zee ; she’ll enter the harbor presently 
with all her sails set and her yards manned — a beautiful sight to be- 
hold!” And Natalie remembered how the dim, faded old eyes 
brightened, and how the poor old white head had trembled with ex- 
citement, and how fast the tears streamed from her own eyes, for 
she knew how vain the waiting would be, how vain until the sea 
should give up its dead. 

But what possessed her to think that the young soldier in there 
was her long-lost son ? He, among so many thousands wounded ! 
“ Oh, my God ! ” she whispered, “ I offer all to Thee, whatever 
betide.” Then with a feeling of half expectancy, half dread, 
mingled with the deathless hope of maternal love, she entered the 
darkened room with noiseless steps and bated breath. Through a 
crevice of the bowed shutters a ray of light stole in athwart the 
bandaged, recumbent figure upon the low, narrow couch ; and pres- 
ently, her eyes having grown more accustomed to the shaded room, 
she saw that the sleeper was tall and of fine proportions. His face, 
which she eagerly scanned, as she drew yet more near and stood 
with folded hands, scarcely breathing, beside him, was bronzed by 
long exposure to the weather, except his forehead, which was as 
white and smooth as a child’s. His dark hair was closely cropped, 
showing the outline of a finely-molded head. His eyebrows, some- 
what heavy, were regular, and almost black, and the heavy lids were 
thickly fringed. His mouth was partly concealed by a dark mous- 
tache, the color of his hair and eyebrows; his chin was squarely 
set, and cleft with a deep dimple. He slept soundly, as if enjoying 
a surcease of agony, of mad confusion and intolerable fatigue. 

“ Some mother’s son, but not mine,” she whispered, as the image 


448 


TANGLED PA THS. 


of her fair baby-boy with blue eyes and long flaxen curls, as she had 
last seen him playing under the old trees on the shores of the Crimea 
arose before her — a memory that had never left her ; as mothers, to 
extreme old age, even until death, cradle within their hearts the lit- 
tle one who passed away to heaven fifty, may be sixty years before. 
This great, strong-limbed man could not be her son ; yet how 
strangely her heart went out to him ! 

“ Water ! ” he murmured, half unclosing his eyes. In an instant 
Natalie held the cool draught to his lips. 

“ Ah-h-h ! ” he murmured, lifting his great steel-blue eyes to hers, 
gazing blankly for an instant, then the heavy lids drooped over them 
and he was again asleep, but now there was a peaceful smile upon 
the face that had looked almost grim before. 

Could this be Dimitri ? were there two Dimitris, then — the 
baby-boy of her “ love’s young dream,” and this young brave, 
“ bearded like a pard,” who had bought birthright in a strange land, 
with his blood ! But he stirs ; and slowly, as if dreaming, thrusts 
his hand into his bosom and grasps something, she can not see what 
— something probably that he had been guarding through dangers 
day and night, and from habit, even in his sleep, felt to see if it 
were safe. 

Mrs. Kinders came to the door, and, speaking very low, asked 
Natalie to come into the hall, which she did without delay. 

“I am glad he’s sleeping,” said the good woman; “for his life 
depends upon the amount of sleep that he gets. He does not need 
us at present ; but No. 2 is in a bad sort of a way. Come, Sister 
Dorcas; I have heard you talking to the German and French sol- 
diers in their own tongue, perhaps you will be able to make out 
what he wants.” 

Natalie shrunk back, but only for an instant ; then followed the 
nurse in, but did not get a glimpse of the patient until she moved 
aside, then at a glance she perceived that her worst fears were con- 
firmed — it was, indeed, her unfortunate husband : Andrea Dousko'i 
a prisoner, and wounded to death. At the moment they entered, 
he was lying motionless and silent ; nothing of his face, for the 
bandages over his eyes, could be seen except the lower part, the 
mouth set with agony, and the square chin cleft with a dimple. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


449 


And now it suddenly flashed upon her that the lower part of the 
face she had just left was the counterpart of this. And her baby- 
boy ! had he not a dimple in his round, rosy chin, which his father 
used to touch with his finger and say : “That is a Douskoi family- 
mark.” A pang wrung her very soul, and she almost cried out in 
her anguish. They had met in battle, as she had dreaded ; she was 
sure they had, and had fallen by each other’s hand. Had she not 
heard the surgeon say that they were found lying together — how 
else, then, could it be ? Oh, heavy cross ! Oh, sorrow beyond 
most sorrows! How could she bear it? “In Thy strength, O 
Jesu !” she murmured — “and with thy help, O Lady of Perpetual 
Succor, I will go on ; let me only offer my sorrows with thine.” Her 
soul cried out against her human instincts, which through this man 
had been unrelentingly tortured for years. But there he lay — help- 
less, blind, and perhaps near unto death, speechlessly appealing to 
her for pity and forgiveness. Could she refuse it, since Almighty 
God had pitied and forgiven her so much ? 

“ Poor fellow ! I’m afraid it’s nigh over with him,” whispered the 
nurse. 

Low mutterings broke from the purple lips, which gradually arose 
to wild ravings. 

“ Do you know what he is saying, Sister Dorcas ? ” 

"“Yes,” faltered Natalie ; “he wants that which he can never 
have again — his past.” 

“ Of what nation is he ? ” 

“ Russia.” 

“A Russian ! good gracious ! He’s the first one of that country 
we’ve ever had ; no wonder that nobody could make out what he 
says. But does he want anything that can be got for him in the 
way of nourishment ? ” 

“ Nothing.” 

“Then if you don’t mind, Sister Dorcas, I’ll go down the 
ward to look after some others that Dr. Crosby has just sent me 
word to see about. Give him this beef-tea presently, and don’t be 
afraid; he couldn’t move himself if he tried, he’s so badly par- 
alyzed.” 

“ I am not afraid ; I will stay as long as you wish,” replied Nata- 


450 


TANGLED PATHS. 


lie. Then she laid aside her bonnet, and knelt near the bedside to 
pray Heaven’s mercy for this erring man, who by his very helpless- 
ness claimed her compassion and forgiveness. She was inexpres- 
sibly relieved to be there alone, for she could not tell how it might 
be, or what scene might arise. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” he laughed, easy good-nature and scorn in the 
note ; how familiar it was, and how often in their happier days had 
she even laughed with him, when he was in one of his merry, mocking 
moods, when she should have chidden. “You never could be made 
to remember that I am a man grown, and hectored and lectured me 
when no one else dared to ; but you always stood by me, Fatiana, 
let others do what they would. I wish, sometimes, I had listened 
to your counsels ; but I was like a wild colt of the Steppes without 
bit or bridle. Come now, sing one of the old Tartar songs ; I am 
very tired, Fatiana, may be it will put me to sleep. Pray ? Come 
now ! did I ever pray? Forgiveness ! Ah, it is too late for that ; 
and even if it were not so, I’m too proud to beg it, after, after — but 
what are you crying about ? Would you have me be such a craven 
as to sue for forgiveness now — now that I can no longer help myself? 
No ! no ! it is never my way to beg grace of my foe upon my back ; 
if he kills, let him kill.” 

Thus talking, as if in colloquy with some visioned phantom, he 
suddenly dropped into silence, out of which he as suddenly started 
and said : “ Yes ! yes ! I see them, Fatiana ! a pair of feet trans- 
fixed with a great nail to wood ; they are bleeding. Whose feet are 
they ? and who is that boy weeping over them ? Ah, God ! it is 
myself. Pshaw ! I must be dreaming ! Do I recollect the time 
yours were beaten and mangled by the knout ? What ! ‘ As you 
do it unto the least of these My little ones, ye do it unto Me.’ 
That is what you said then, and what you say still ; ” he was speak- 
ing in slow, measured tones, as if a semi-consciousness mingled 
with his wanderings. “ But whose feet are they ? The feet of the 
Crucified, you say ! And you would persuade me, old cheat that 
you are ! that He remembers that act of long ago, despite the misdo- 
ings and crimes that I repent not of. No ! I take that back. 
There’s one sin I do repent me of — that has given me no rest day 
or night, and driven me ever, ever to the front of battle hoping for 


TANGLED PA THS. 


451 


death. I would like to undo that ! ” His voice sunk in unutterable 
sadness; only his purple lips moved and trembled, but no sound es- 
caped them. 

And Natalie, all the bitter past swallowed up in an abyss of pity, 
obliterated by a divine forgiveness, knew now that all love was not 
extinguished in her heart lor this erring man upon whom she had 
lavished its best treasures, one whom to have loved once would make 
her insensible to the strongest appeals of a second, and even more 
worthy sentiment. She rose up and held a cup of iced lemonade to 
his lips ; he drank some with evident relish ; then she sponged his 
face with some of the aromatic water that she always carried about 
her for the use of the sick, and wiped it very gently with a soft, fine, 
old linen handkerchief. 

“It is so good to have you here, old nurse. How did I get hurt ? 
Was I hunting bears ? Never fret so ! I’ll be well presently. Now 
stop crying, and listen ; come closer — no one must hear it except 
yourself. Do you know — listen — that not even the Crucified would 
forgive me unless — hold your ears close — unless Olga, my wife, first 
forgave me? Did you know I tried to murder her — ha ! does not 
even that drive you from me, Fatiana ? But I did, and ever since, 
remorse has possessed me like a devil, giving me no rest. I would 
have crawled to her feet to tell her so, had I not been too proud — 
knowing that she would spurn me.” 

Blinded with tears Natalie knelt by him. He must not wait to 
hear from her lips an assurance of forgiveness. Ah, how uncon- 
ditionally had she not already forgiven everything ! Laying her 
hand upon his, she said : “ Andrea ! ” 

He started and seemed to be listening intently to something afar off 
— a sound that partially aroused him out of his semi-delirious visions. 
She laid her cheek wet with tears upon the hand she held — that 
cruel hand which had given her blows, wounded her, and cast her 
into the waves to drown; but never, never to be remembered 
against him again. 

“ Andrea ! ” 

He partially, as well as he could, turned his face toward her as 
she knelt, listening, listening, eager, breathless, but the voice was 
nearer now, it was hers indeed ; but perhaps he dreamed ? 


452 


TANGLED PA THS. 


“ Andrea, my husband, if my forgiveness is aught to thee, it is 
thine a thousand times.” She spoke in his native language, and he 
heard her words ; they penetrated the strange visionary shadows 
that clouded his brain ; his haughty lips essayed to speak, but they 
only quivered, and tears crimsoned by the blood of his wound, rolled 
slowly down his swarthy cheeks. Natalie wiped them off with tender 
touch. 

“It is more than I deserve, or hoped for,” he said at last, in 
broken tones. 

“ And if I forgive thee, how much more will Almighty God for- 
give thee, Andrea ? ” 

“ Olga, dost thou forgive all ? — all ? ” 

“ All. And know — if it will comfort thee in this sad hour — that 
my love for thee survives all.” 

(i If this be true, then there may be mercy for me. My repent- 
ance is not of to-day, but it was without hope, until now. All is 
not so dark. I have been dreaming of Fatiana ; methought she 
was here. Hold my hand close, Olga, and never let it go.” 

With her right hand she loosened her crucifix from the cord about 
her neck and held it toward him. 

“ Andrea,” she said, “ wilt thou kiss the image of thy crucified 
Lord in token of thy desire to be forgiven ? ” He pressed her hand ; 
she held the crucifix to his lips and he kissed the wounded feet. 

“ It is but little, but it is all that I can do,” he said in faltering 
tones. 

“ Andrea, by the mercy of Almighty God I am no longer an infi- 
del, as once, but one of that Fold of which Christ is the Head ; will 
you receive Baptism at my hands ? ” Again he pressed her hand, 
and drawing a vial of holy water from her bosom, she poured it upon 
his head in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy 
Ghost. There was no Catholic clergyman near by; she could not 
leave him, clinging to her hand as he did ; there would have been 
no time, for her experienced eye saw that the gray shadow was al- 
ready gathering around him. Holding her hand, as one might cling 
to something when drowning after the wreck had gone to pieces, he 
did not speak again, nor would she break the silence. At length 
the footsteps of a man were heard in the hall, coming that way. It 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


453 

was the surgeon, making his last round before snatching an hour’s 
sleep. He came in. 

“ How are you, General ? ” he said, in kind, cheerful tones. 

But there came no reply ; he felt his pulse, and said he was sinking. 

“ Shall I send some one to you, Sister ? He may die at any mo- 
ment.” 

“There is no need,” she answered, “as there is no hope. I will 
watch here with him.” The dying man heard her, and pressed her 
hand faintly. The surgeon went away, leaving them together, little 
dreaming of the mystery of those two lives, or the tie that bound 
them together. The passionate life of Andrea Count Douskoi was 
near its close, tranquil at last — as we sometimes see a calm sunset 
through a rift in the storm-cloud — and going down into the shadow 
of death, but never loosening his grasp on the long, 'fair hand he 
held, until toward midnight she felt that it grew very cold ; but 
imagining that he still slept — and oh, how quietly ! — her gaze rested 
steadily upon him, her eyes filled with tears of inexpressible pity ; 
then she saw something in the fixed stillness of his face that startled 
her, and, leaning over, she pressed her ear against his heart, listen- 
ing for the faintest throb, but it was silent, motionless forever. Na- 
talie did not summon help ; but, still holding his cold hand in hers, 
she never ceased praying fervently for the repose of his soul until 
the day dawned and the nurse came in. 

“ He’s asleep yet, I declare ! It will do him good !” she said. 

“ He is dead,” she answered, in low, sad tones. “I did not sum- 
mon help, because he died as one falling asleep.” 

li How tired you look, Sister Dorcas ! you must rest to-day. Poor 
fellow 1 Did you know him before the war ? Perhaps he was a 
friend of yours ? ” 

“Yes, I knew him. I will take upon myself the expense of his 
burial. I am going out now, and shall be back by nine o’clock.” 

Natalie put on her bonnet and veil, and went, walking rapidly, to 
see Father De Haes, whom she found in the confessional, and im- 
parted to him the strange and touching events of the night. The 
good clergyman was affected to tears. 

“You have done for that soul all that it was possible, under the 
circumstances, to do, my poor child. God’s grace is sufficient to 


454 


TANGLED PA THS. 


fill up and level the uneven places. It was a cross, this new ex- 
perience, ” he said, “ but did not 4 light rise out of the darkness/ in- 
asmuch as Almighty God in His providence gave to that erring soul 
its last opportunity for repentance, and to yourself the consolation 
of imitating the example of His Divine Son in forgiving, so per- 
fectly, one who had so deeply injured you ! Lift up your heart then, 
and be glad, my child ; for even in a late repentance there is hope, 
for God weigheth all things ; He knows the weakness of His creat- 
ures, and knows that they are but dust. I will offer my first Mass 
for his repose ; now prepare yourself to receive Holy Communion 
for the same end.” 

It was Natalie’s wish that Father De Haes should see Mr. Weston 
and her husband’s friend, the Russian banker, and impart to them 
the news of his death ; which he not only promised to do, but also 
to make whatever arrangements she desired for the last solemn rites. 

“ If you please; I know nothing about such matters, my father. 
I wish everything suitable, and a lot purchased in my name in a 
Catholic cemetery,” she answered. “ I will give a draught on Mr. 
Weston for all expenses, whatever they may be.” 

And everything was done according to her wishes. The body of 
the “ Rebel General,” as he was called in the hospital, in a rich 
plain rosewood coffin, was taken to the church of which Father De 
Haes was pastor, late that evening, where it reposed until the follow- 
ing morning, when the Holy Sacrifice was offered for the departed 
soul ; after which, attended by Natalie and the good clergyman, the 
remains were borne to their last resting-place, in consecrated ground. 

This sad duty over, Natalie returned to the hospital to face and 
grapple with the other trial that awaited her there. She came into 
the surgery to speak a few words to Dr. Crosby in relation to the 
wounded young soldier up-stairs, whom she now feared might be her 
son, but without giving him a hint of the secret that oppressed her. 
She only asked to be allowed to attend him and have him under 
her care, a request which he found no difficulty in granting. 

“ A moment, Sister Dorcas,” ha said, kindly. “ Mrs. Kinders tells 
me that the 4 Rebel General/ buried this morning, was a friend ot 
yours. If so, and if you have no serious objection to doing so, I 
wish you would tell me his name, as it is one of the rules to register 


TANGLED PA THS. 45 5 

the names of all who come here, and, if they die, the date of their 
death, etc.” 

“ His name was Andrea Dousko'i ; he was by birth a Russian. 
You know that he was in the Rebel service, but of that I can tell 
you nothing.” That was all, and so it was registered. 

“It was one of Sister Dorcas’ strange charities to take all the ex- 
pense of burying the General upon herself,” Mrs. Kinders said to the 
surgeon ; “ people don’t often do as much for their friends. Oh ! I 
forgot to give her the basketful of flowers that Miss Weston sent 
in this morning. I’ll run right up with them.” Mrs. Kinders snatched 
up the basket, which was filled and running over with flowers of the 
richest hues, the fairest tints, and sweetest fragrance, and overtook 
Natalie, who was walking slowly in the upper hall, and held them up 
before her. “ How beautiful,” she said, bowing her face down among 
them for an instant ; then she culled a lily, one or two tea-roses, and 
a carnation for her own patient, and requested Mrs. Kinders to dis- 
tribute the others, as far as they would go, in the various wards. 
“ Indeed I will ; for a flower sometimes does the poor souls more 
good than medicine ; it takes ’em home, like.” 

Then Natalie entered upon her ordeal as of fire. When she got 
into No. 1, the young officer was dozing. She, moving noiselessly, 
laid her bonnet and veil aside, then arranging the flowers in a small 
glass jar, she placed it upon the table near his bedside, and sat down 
by the window until he should awake. She saw now, more marked 
than before, the strong resemblance between this young face and 
the dark, world-weary one now resting under the sod. Fearing all 
that she did, she hoped that the sleeper there might not be her son, 
and that this likeness of contour, and the shape of the chin, and the 
haughty expression so apparent even while he slumbered, were only 
accidental coincidences ; for what happiness could she ever know 
again if it should be he, and he a parricide ? Did she not know all 
that Dimitri had threatened, should he ever meet his father, and now, 
O God ! wFat anguish did not the thought of this being possibly he, 
bring her ! Whose hand had sped the fatal bullet crashing into 
the brain of her unfortunate husband — but for which, the surgeon 
had said, he might have lived ? Once more the cold sweat of anguish 
drenched her face, instead of tears ; her cross was heavy indeed. 


456 


TANGLED PATHS. 


and the best she could do was only to suffer without revolt, and beg 
of Almighty God to accept her bitter griefs with those of the Cruci- 
fied. And all this time her bruised heart was yearning, despite of her- 
self, toward the sleeper. A slight sound disturbed her meditations, 
and, turning toward the bed, she saw a pair of large, steel-blue eyes 
fixed wonderingly upon her. 

“You are better, I hope ?” she said. 

“ Thanks, madame, yes.” Then his glance wandered toward the 
flowers, and a smile stole over his face, brightening it like a sun- 
beam. She gave him the jar that held them, and he rested his 
cheek against them, inhaled their fragrance, and seemed as if he 
would never weary of looking at them. Natalie examined the sur- 
geon’s written directions, pinned to the wall-paper ; and seeing that 
it was time for the beef-tea, she heated some over the gas and held 
it to his lips. “It is very good,” he said; “but, madame, I am 
very hungry ; I should like some roast beef ; something solid.” He 
spoke in French, without thinking whether or no he would be un- 
derstood. 

“ I will speak to the surgeon about it,” she said, quietly, also in 
French. “But we shall have to be careful, lest inflammation set 
in.” 

“ I did not think of that, madame. You are very kind,” he an- 
swered. 

Several times that day Natalie looked up from the “ havelocks ” 
she was making, wondering if he was asleep, and found his eyes 
fixed with a penetrating, questioning glance upon her face ; but she 
seemed not to notice it, and resumed her work. She would wait ; 
any excitement might retard his recovery, for the dread clung to 
her that if he were indeed her son he was a parricide, and she was 
glad to put off now that for which she had been pining through 
all these long, sad years. One day she saw him, in the toilet- 
glass that hung against the wall at the foot of his bed, take a minia- 
ture out of a litttle chamois-skin bag that was suspended by a cord 
about his neck, look at it, then at her, and again scan the pictured 
face, then hers, with a sad, yearning expression on his young face 
that smote her to the heart. 

“Ah ! ” she thought, “ if I might only see that miniature, then I 


TANGLED PA THS. 


457 


should know ; but, alas ! time enough for the evil day when it 
comes ! ” But think as she would, try as she might, not all the sor- 
rowful dread that had taken possession of her could either chill or keep 
back the instinctive yearnings of her heart toward him — her son, as 
she was firmly assured he was. One morning Edyth ran in, to bring 
her a letter, and a basket of fruit and flowers from Sybil. One of 
the hospital attendants had conducted her to No. i ; her cheeks 
were glowing, her golden hair flowing in long loose curls from under 
her simple straw hat, her cheeks dimpled with delight at once more 
seeing and embracing Natalie. Edyth had grown very beautiful in 
these three years, and was tall for her age. At first she did not 
notice, coming out of the sunlight into the shaded room, the 
wounded young officer lying there with a half-smile upon his lips, 
gazing at her more admiringly than he himself was aware of. The 
blood surged up into her face, and, kissing Natalie, she ran away, 
almost frightened, and wondering what Sybil would say when she 
told her about it. 

“ Was that a fairy, madame ? or a dream? ” he asked. “ I am 
sorry I frightened her away.” 

“Not a fairy,” she answered, quietly, :t but a sister of the lady 
who sends so many beautiful flowers to us. Let us see what she 
has brought. Blanc-mange,. cream, home-made bread, country 
butter, and peaches ! You will feast to-day.” 

“I am as hungry as a kite, madame ; and, if you please, I will 
regale my eyes with those roses while I partake of the good things 
you kindly allow me.” He spoke in a light-hearted way, laughed 
like a pleased child when Natalie arranged such of the delicacies as 
he desired upon his table, and fell to eating them with keen zest. 
Ah, could it be that this brave young heart was a parricide ? She 
turned away with a sigh, and, going over to the window, opened 
her letter. It was from Mr. Weston — only a line — inclosing a note 
and a folded paper from Mr. Wykoff, the Russian banker, who in 
a few courteous lines called her attention to the latter, stating that 
it had been forwarded to him by private hand from Virginia soon 
after the opening of the war, and that he awaited her orders. Won- 
dering what it could mean, she opened the paper referred to, and 
read, almost blinded by tears, the following brief will, in her hus- 


20 


458 


TANGLED PATHS. 


band’s handwriting, dated August ioth, 1861, at Richmond, Va. : 
“ In case,” so it ran, “ that I fall in battle, or die otherwise either 
by disease or accident, I bequeath, being in my sound mind, to my 
injured wife, Olga, Countess of Douskoi, nee von StiirmhofF, all 
jewels and moneys belonging to me, now on deposit in the bank of 
Oscar Wykoff, Washington City, D. C. And with my last breath, 
I implore my wife’s forgiveness. — Andrea Douskoi.” Then fol- 
lowed the names of three witnesses, gentlemen who were formerly 
well-known and distinguished in Washington as jurists and members 
of Congress. 

Natalie refolded the paper, which contained evidence of a re- 
pentance that had been almost too late, and thrust it into her 
bosom ; then gathering up the flowers, and a portion of the good 
things from “ Westover,” she took them away to one of the wards 
where were some sufferers awaiting just such helps to give them a 
start toward recovery. Her patient was in high spirits when she 
got back, refreshed by the good things of which he had partaken, 
and ready to tell all about the last battle if she would only let him 
talk. Yes, he might talk now ; the time had come when she must 
know the worst, if he could tell it her. 


CHAPTER XII. 


“ This heat makes me wish for a Russian snow, almost,” he said, 
snatching up a palm-leaf fan and using it vigorously. 

“ It is extremely warm to-day ; I will hear of no battles. Let us 
talk of the Russian snows. Were you ever in Russia ? ” she asked, 
with pallid lips, and in a low voice. 

“ I am a Russian, madame ; and oh ! pardon me ! ” he cried 
suddenly, “but tell me for pity’s sake who you are ? See ! this face 
— the face of my mother, lost to me years ago — and your face are 
the same. Ah ! madame, I have so longed to question you, but 
dared not, lest you should think me crazy.” 

In his excitement he spoke his native language, and held the 
miniature toward her. Ah, how well she remembered it ! 

“ Before I answer your question,” she said, a tremor and almost 
a dread in her tones, “ you must first tell me something. Did you 
ever know Count Andrea Douskoi ? ” 

“ I should know him ; but why, madame, do you ask ? Did you 
know him ? ” his voice eager and trembling. 

“Did you — did you — meet in the late battle? Tell me, for 
God’s sake ! ” 

“We did, madame ; he is my enemy — the enemy of my mother; 
and I, I have sworn to avenge her wrongs upon him should I ever 
meet him. My fair, beautiful mother ! whose happiness he ruined ! ” 

Tears gushed from his eyes, and the veins in his forehead stood 
out like cords, with the impetuous passion and grief of his heart. 

Natalie longed to fold her arms about him and draw his head to 
her bosom, weeping those hot tears for her, and longing — with a 
longing as strong as her own— for a mother’s love; but she could 
not, if he was a parricide ; her secret should die with her if it was as 
she feared, and he might go Oilt into the wide world again, followed 
by her prayers — thinking, if the fancy pleased him, that the resem- 

( 459 ) 


460 


TANGLED PA THS. 


blance between herself and the miniature was only one of those 
singular coincidences that come more or less into most lives. 

“Tell me about it ; how did it happen?” she asked, now that 
he was quite composed. “ I wish to hear nothing of the battle ex- 
cept your meeting with Count Andrea Douskoi.” 

“My captain fell, madame, just as we were ordered to storm a 
battery in front of us ; it was my duty to take his place. I mounted 
his horse immediately, and was cheering on my men toward it when 
I saw him. It was in the thickest of the fight; he was galloping 
furiously down upon me, his sabre uplifted to cleave me through 
and through. I spurred my horse toward him and leveled my pistol 
full at his head — ” 

“ Ah, God ! ” sighed Natalie, shuddering, and clasping her hands 
tightly over her heart, her face as white as if it was that of a dead 
person. 

“ But at that instant a shell exploded between us, and I remem- 
ber no more.” 

“ And you did not fire ? ” 

“ No ; I had not time. My pistols will show the fact.” 

“ Thanks be to God, Dimitri Douskoi — if you are indeed he — 
that it so happened ! Behold in me your unhappy mother, Olga 
von Stiirmhoff Douskoi. Now, my son, whom I have so long 
sought sorrowing, I welcome thee to my arms: now I can rejoice 
in having found thee, since I know thou art not a parricide.” 

“ My mother ! my mother at last ! ” he said, with tender cadence, 
speaking low, as if his emotion and happiness were too deep for 
utterance. “ Mother ! have I indeed found thee at last ? ” 

Now she could gather his head to her breast, and fold her arms 
about him, and press her lips upon his forehead, her heart almost 
bursting with joy over the son that was lost, and now so strangely 
found. 

“ Wonderful are Thy Providences, O my God ! Who shall say 
that Thou takest no heed of the ways of Thy creatures ? ” she mur- 
mured. “ But, my son,” she said at last, “ he whose life thou didst 
so madly seek — your father’s life, Dimitri — was brought here, 
wounded by the same shell that struck you — a dying, penitent man. 
By the mercy of God I was led to his bedside. I recognized him 


TANGLED PA THS. 


461 


at once. He knew my voice, and, forgiving, forgiven, we parted, 
he to the infinite compassion of Heaven, I to thee, my son ! my 
son ! But not another word ; the excitement may bring on fever ; 
suffice it for the present that we have found each other.” 

“ No ; let us talk on, my mother. Oh, that sweetest of words ! 
It cools me ; it refreshes me ; it makes me well and strong, my 
beautiful, beautiful mother. I will never pain thee by naming him 
whom I will try to forgive, seeing that thou hast pardoned all, thou 
who didst bear all. I am satisfied to have thee ; and oh ! I have 
so much to tell thee, my mother ; ” he never seemed to weary of 
pronouncing that word, mother. 

Heaven only had witnessed this scene, so sacred that angels’ eyes 
could look upon it as they seldom did on earthly things ; and no 
one of the hospital inmates knew of the mysterious tie between 
“ Sister Dorcas ” and the patient in “ No. 1 ” any more than they 
had suspected that which existed between herself and the Rebel 
General. They only noted that a brighter, happier look had come 
into her face, that her step was more elastic, and that her voice had 
a ring in it none of them had ever heard before. 

“If she wasn’t a Romanist,” one of the nurses said to Mrs. Kind- 
ers one day, when speaking of Natalie, “ I should say she had got 
religion ; but they don’t hold with that, you know.” 

“I don’t know what they hold with, but I’ve noticed since this 
war begun — and I’ve had a good chance to observe them — that they 
seem to do for the love of God all that they do ; and happen what 
may, they are strict to their Church duties, and don’t appear 
ashamed to be seen praying, either, wherever they maybe. I don’t 
know much about their belief; but if it teaches them to act, for 
instance, like Sister Dorcas, why, it’s one we might all take lessons 
from.” 

“ Yes ; she's naturally amiable, and charitable ; and they do say 
she’s eccentric ; but I hope I shall never be brought to that pass 
that I shall have to go to the Pope of Rome to take lessons in re- 
ligion. Evangelical truth is good enough for me 

It is so difficult for persons outside the Faith to understand the 
supernatural motives of the true Catholic life. 

But a day came at last, in the pleasant autumn season, when the 


462 


TANGLED PA THS. 


young captain, who had been honorably mentioned in the official 
reports, and duly promoted to his present rank for gallantry in the 
field, was pronounced convalescent, and permitted to move about 
once more. The shattered bones of his thigh were firmly knit to- 
gether ; there was not the slightest inconvenience felt in standing or 
walking, except a slight limp, at which he laughed, and called it his 
“ patent of American citizenship.” 

Mr. Weston and the Russian banker had been informed by Nata- 
lie — as we will still call her — of her having at length found her son, 
but were requested to consider, for a time, her communication as 
strictly confidential. She also imparted the happy news to Father 
De Haes, who rejoiced with her particularly in the fact that her sad 
fears had not been realized, and that she had found in her son one 
who promised to be a consolation to her, as well as an honor to 
himself and to his adopted country. 

And now, yielding to Mr. Weston’s urgent solicitations, she con- 
sented to make the long-promised visit to “ Westover,” accompanied 
by Dimitri, who even yet did not like her to be out of his sight, as 
if he were possessed of a haunting dread that she might be spirited 
away from him again or he from her. 

The evening before they left the hospital, Natalie had a private 
conference with the chief surgeon, and imparted to him, without 
entering into its unhappy details, certain portions of her history, 
and how she had found in the Rebel General and the young Federal 
officer a husband and son, from whom she had been separated for 
many years. He congratulated her heartily, but appeared more 
pleased than surprised, for occurrences even more strange and 
romantic than this had come under the good surgeon’s observation 
since the war began. 

“ After a short rest in the country, I shall come back to offer my 
mite of help to the great work here, doctor, if you will so allow.” 

There was still a little peculiarity in Natalie’s phrases when she 
spoke English. 

The surgeon assured her of welcome, knowing as he did of all 
the good she had already done, and of the many lives she had helped 
to save by her intelligent and gentle ministrations. He only asked 
one favor : that he might be allowed to mention to Mrs. Kinders, 


TANGLED PA THS. 


463 


who was a discreet woman, and warmly attached to her, the facts 
he had just heard ; to which she consented, on condition that the 
nurse would promise not to speak of them ; “ for,” said she, “ when 
I come back I wish to come only as 4 Sister Dorcas,’ and not as one 
who has a singular history or a name known to the world ; it would 
impair my usefulness, and set me up above my work.” 

“ But why return here, madam e ? You have done your share of 
this noble work ; why not rest from it altogether ? ” 

“ For the love of God, and as a ‘thank-offering’ for all His 
mercies,” she said, in low, sweet tones, and glided from his presence, 
leaving only the echo of these last words with him there in the twi- 
light. 

“ How very peculiar Roman Catholics are ! ” mused the surgeon ; 
“ they seem to me to live in a world of their own. It is really a 
puzzle.” 

Yes ! to all who are outside the “ Kingdom which is not of this 
world,” its existence, its laws, its supernatural gifts, its spirit, its 
mysteries, its all, is a puzzle and a problem which no human wis- 
dom, however deep, can solve ; and no wonder that the surgeon, as 
well as Mrs. Kinders, failed to comprehend the fruits thereof. 

Mrs. Weston heard for the first time Natalie’s strange, romantic 
history a day or two before she, with her son, was expected at 
“ Westover,” and it appeared for the time being to rouse her into a 
new lease of life. 

“It was so different now that Natalie, the ci-devant governess, 
was Madame the Countess Douskoi,” she argued in her own mind ; 
“ and who knew but that, after all, her daughter, Edyth, might bear 
the same title which she had once so envied Sybil the possession 
of?” 

Mrs. Weston was a far-seeing woman, and she could not help ob- 
serving from her windows, with secret gratification, how the young 
soldier loved to have Edyth near him, and how his eyes followed 
her wherever she moved. “ She’s almost too young for anything 
serious yet awhile, but if I’m not mistaken he’ll wait. He is so 
handsome, handsomer than his father, though very like him, and I 
don’t think I’ll mind much, now, his being a Federal. That little 
limp is quite interesting, too.” 


464 


TANGLED PA TBS. 


It was the delicious Indian summer, and everybody lived much 
out under the great variegated trees, enjoying each other’s society 
and the dolce far niente of the entrancing season at the same time, 
which afforded Mrs. Weston great facilities for observation. Sybil’s 
cup of earthly happiness was overflowing to see Natalie, to have 
her there ; to know that she was happy, and to watch the loving, 
tender care of that great, wonderful son of hers over her, filled her 
with content ; never greater than when, stealing away together every 
evening, they knelt before the altar of St. Agnes to pray for his con- 
version. 

Our story is finished. It has exceeded by far its original plan, 
for its u tangled paths” could not be made straight except by the 
ordinary rules of construction, without offense to those who were 
interested in tracing their complicated wanderings ; and we will only 
linger a moment to say that Dimitri would not resign his commission 
in the United States Army, which his wounds would have enabled 
him to do with honor to himself; but Mr. Weston, through high in- 
fluence and the young soldier’s own brave record, got him invited 
to be one of General Grant’s staff officers, who was then advanc- 
ing from the south-west by a series of splendid victories to bring 
the “cruel war” to a final close. And Mrs. Weston’s prophetic 
hopes were finally realized ; she did not, however, live to see this, 
but passed away one night in her narcotized slumbers, without the 
Sacramejits , leaving only this hope : that she had been induced by 
Father Paul to begin an irregular sort of confession one day, and 
promised that she would not delay approaching the Sacraments, but 
put it off for one frivolous excuse or another, until there “ arose a 
cry upon the midnight, lo ! the Bridegroom cometh.” How was it 
with this worldly, faithless Catholic, whose lamp had been so long 
untrimmed and without oil ? 

When Dimitri went away to join the command to which he had 
been assigned, Natalie returned, as she had promised, to her post 
at the hospital, where she remained until the fall of Richmond 
closed the war, not knowing but that any day would bring her tid- 
ings from the battle-field that would rend her heart ; but he came 
back unharmed, a Colonel now, with a reputation sans peur , sans 
reproche. 


TANGLED PA THS. 


465 

“ How could you be afraid, my mother ? What could harm me 
through all those prayers that guarded me ? ” he said, as he knelt 
by her side, his arm about her, and his head upon her breast, rest- 
ing like a tired boy in the peacefulest, securest, and most unfailing 
love that boy or man can ever know — a mother’s. 

Sybil’s youth had vanished, and threads of white glistened here 
and there in her golden hair ; her father, won at last by her pure 
example, had become a devout Catholic; and when he, after a 
peaceful death some years later, was laid to rest, and no duty was 
left to her unfulfilled, she retired to “ Holy Cross,” where she con- 
secrated herself to Almighty God in th$ religious state, toward 
which her vocation had led her from her early youth, the aspiration 
and term of that which she had most hoped and longed for upon 
earth ; and can we doubt that the sacrifice she had made through 
all these past years of this her dearest and most sacred wish to the 
actual life-duties that lay before her was not as well-pleasing to God 
as her present act ? 

Natalie — Madame Douskoi — spends much of her time at “ West- 
over ” with her children, Edyth and Dimitri, who are happily mar- 
ried, then returns to her home in the city, where, surrounded by a 
few friends, the Bradfords, the Waites — who have returned — and a 
few other congenial spirits, she spends her time dispensing good, 
and showing unostentatiously to the world, a living example of the 
true workings of Catholic Truth in the human mind. 

She had never lost sight of her colored friends, those good Samar- 
itans near the Long Bridge who saved her life, but assisted them 
generously, watched over their interests, until Joe was well estab- 
lished in a business connected with his favorite occupation — fish- 
ing ; then took upon herself the expense of the education of the 
two little girls, whom you will remember. 

We must not forget Miss Arnold, who has grown to be fat as well 
as fair, and lives a life of contented ease at “ Westover ” all the 
year round, and, although she clings with fidelity to the “ Thirty- 
nine Articles,” and thinks the Roman Catholic religion a heresy, 
has no scruples about going every day to pray in the little Chapel 
of St. Agnes that the Lord will bless abundantly those who have 
so befriended her lonely life. . 






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